


We'll Always Have Paris

by ava_jamison



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Crime Fighting, Detective Work, Gen, Inappropriate Behavior, Mistaken Identity, Paris (City), Silver Age, Undercover Missions, capers, crossdressing for justice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-08-10 21:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 52,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16462382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_jamison/pseuds/ava_jamison
Summary: A traveling exhibit of Amazonian jewels goes missing at the Gotham Museum of Antiquities, and local philanthropist Bruce Wayne is asked to perform as ambassador (and detective) by following the exhibit to its next destination: Paris. Dick follows.Set in the Silver Age, in 1969, this fic is filled with the magic of Paris, Dick’s joie de vivre and Bruce being inappropriate.Now complete!





	1. Bonjour, Dick Grayson!

The flight landed right on time, and Dick awoke to find himself staring into the eyes of the pretty blonde mini-skirted stewardess. She was kneeling beside his first-class seat, shaking him awake. “We’ve landed, Mr. Mathews. You’ve reached your destination.” He hoped he hadn’t been snoring, grinned and blinked, then got his briefcase and trotted down the jet’s stairway to the tarmac into the sunny Paris morning. He couldn’t stop grinning.

Ducking into the airport VIP lounge, Dick checked his reflection in the bathroom. Was his mustache a little crooked, or was it his imagination? Better safe than sorry. The skin above his upper lip stung a little when he pulled it off and he pressed his finger onto the red line that momentarily appeared where the mustache had been. Working quickly, he cleaned off the adhesive residue from his face and the appliance before reapplying the glue and carefully aligning and attaching the pencil thin line of real hair back in place. Then he combed his hair, straightened the lapel of his hip new brown corduroy jacket and winked at himself in the mirror. “Grayson, you’ve it going on,” he said, then caught himself and used his ‘Dave Mathews’ voice. And name. Twice. It was always hard to tell for sure, listening to yourself, but he’d practiced the voice at home, taping and listening, and he’d come away pretty pleased with the results. He smiled at his reflection and gave himself a thumbs up.

Dick headed for baggage claim and waited to collect his luggage, tapping his foot with impatience, a grin still plastered on his face. The smile barely dimmed, even a half hour later when the last of the bags were claimed by his fellow passengers and it looked like his had gone on to Rome. Good thing he had all the important stuff in his briefcase. He filled out a missing items form and hailed a taxi.

At one o‘clock, the cab dropped him at 1818 Rue de Matin, the DuMarier estate at the edge of the city. A garden party was in session, and elegant guests were scattered across the green expanse of carefully landscaped lawn. Within fifteen minutes, Dick had infiltrated the waiter‘s station, pilfered and donned a proper jacket and apron, and commandeered a tray of champagne. Time to circulate amongst the international socialites and celebrities.

Zeroing in on his target, Dick approached a party of two playing croquet on the sunny lawn: a tall, handsome, impeccably dressed man and a slim, dark-haired girl in a yellow floral party dress. Silver tray balanced perfectly in one hand, Dick negotiated the slight roll of the carefully manicured landscape, catching bits of the couple’s conversation as he grew closer.

“I‘m gaining on you, Bruce,” the young woman said, striking mallet to ball with a satisfying thwack.

“Not quite well enough, I’m afraid,” Bruce said, striding languidly toward his ball, about ten feet away.

Voice aiming for a full octave lower than his usual register, Dick interrupted the couple. “Champagne?”

“Oh, champagne,” the girl said, electric blue eyes darting to the fizzing crystal flutes Dick held aloft. “Oui.”

Bruce didn't look up, squaring his shoulders and gauging the playing field. “Petit chou, I wonder if you are old enough?” He chuckled, low in the back of his throat. It wasn’t an authentic laugh, and it wasn’t even the millionaire playboy laugh. Maybe Bruce was tired, after two weeks of playing the part.

“I won’t tell my parents, if that’s what you mean,” she said, pushing back a strand of dark hair and taking a glass. “You have to know I don’t tell them everything.”

“Mais oui, Lorena,” Bruce answered. “And I believe I have some rather bad news, dear.” He raised his mallet. The strike was perfect, and his red ball rolled with a smack into her green one, knocking it aside before rolling through two wickets.

Dick cleared his throat, then said, in flawless French: “Two wickets and a roquet on one stroke, sir. Very nice.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed and flicked up to really look at the waiter. Then he grinned, as warm a smile as Dick had seen on his face in months.

With a fluid, perfect roll his arm, Dick extended the silver tray of sparkling drinks.“Champagne, monsieur?”

“On second thought, yes,” Bruce said, moving toward him, still grinning.

“And I’ll want another glass, Bruce.” The girl said, her voice bordering on a whine. “See?” She drained most of the flute she was currently holding in three little slurps, then giggled. “It tickles!” she said, stepping unsteadily toward her ball, her heels wobbly in the green grass.

Bruce’s laugh was directed at her, and it was false, but his eyes, focused on Dick, were smiling, mischievous. He reached for a crystal flute. “Merci, garçon.”

“But of course, monsieur,” Dick said, continuing their little charade, in his best version of Alfred, were Alfred from another country. “But is the lady old enough to indulge in such refreshment?”

“Darling,” Bruce said over his shoulder, his eyes still on Dick. “Darling, quell âge avez-vous?”

The girl, who’d been taking her shot, either didn’t hear her companion or had decided to ignore him. Bruce shrugged, broad, muscular shoulders rolling up, then down in a semblance of helplessness. “It’s no use, I’m afraid. She doesn’t speak much French. Or English, if the words are more than one or two syllables.”

“Bruce, what are you talking about?” she called. “Me?”

“He inquired whether you were of age, my dear.”

The girl came closer, smiling vacuously, her small fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass. “That’s a bit cheeky for a waiter, is it not?” She glared at Dick, then smiled slyly at Bruce, batting her lashes a bit. “And after all, I’m in France, aren’t I?”

“Indeed you are, mon petit chou.” Bruce nodded, speaking to her but winking at Dick, while simultaneously digging something from his pocket. “As am I, so why not indulge a bit. Paris is lovely today. Why not toast to that?”

Bruce took a second flute, balancing them both between the fingers of one large hand, then used the other to place a few folded franc notes on the space the glasses had occupied. His eyes were dancing, crinkled at the corners with pleasure.

“Payment is not necessary, monsieur,” Dick said, wondering what Bruce was up to, but playing along.

“Ah, but I insist, dear boy. I like to take care of business as I go. Attend to details. So I must give you a little something for your trouble.” Bruce used his index finger to gently tap the folded bills, and the edge of something silver peeked out, shining against the white linen napkin that lined the tray. A key.

Dick scooped the bills and key into his pocket just before the girl got close enough to deposit her empty glass and take the new one Bruce presented to her. She clinked it against Bruce’s. “To Paris, then. And all it’s exciting new adventures.

“Mm,” Bruce answered, his eyes flicking to Dick and then past him, scanning the lawn and a group of guests collecting near the rose garden. “I do believe we need to join our hosts for lunch, dear. And I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you for dinner, after all, Lorena.”

She frowned.

Bruce took her arm, patting it soothingly as he began to steer her toward the other guests. “I know, ma chère.” He formed a moue of disappointment, but his eyes sparkled. “I have a friend meeting me at the Paris Ritz.” Looking back over his shoulder at Dick, he winked, then touched his watch and threw what Dick thought for a moment was a victory sign, before he realized Bruce meant 2:00.

Dick grinned back.

***

Swinging open the door to Suite 512, Dick could only think that the Paris Ritz was very, very ritzy indeed. Done in yellow and ivory Louis XIV style, it wasn’t exactly to his taste, but it was swanky. He wandered through the suite’s sitting area, and was out on the sunny balcony, taking in the view of the Seine, when he heard Bruce come in.

“Dick, shame on you.” Bruce grabbed him by the shoulders, grinning. “And Alfred is implicated too, I suppose.” For a moment, Dick thought he was going to be hugged, but it passed, though Bruce’s hands stayed, gripped like vises on his upper arms. “I’ve never been so surprised to see you in my life.”

“I fooled you there for a minute, didn’t I?”

“For a split second, I thought the DuMarier family had employed an inappropriately convivial waiter, but then I saw it was you—turn around, let me look.” Bruce’s hand on his shoulder shifted, pushing to steer him clockwise. “It’s a good disguise, Dick. Well-chosen, good wardrobe, and the pencil mustache is an unexpected touch for you.” He clapped him on the back. “Nicely played. Gordon gave you my itinerary, I suppose?”

Dick nodded. “He did.”

“And how did you get out of school a day early?”

“Alfred called the principal and—”

“I can’t believe Alfred would be complicit in helping you miss extra school.”

“You already told the school I’d be missing the other few days, and that you’d make sure I studied,” Dick rolled his eyes. “And my French teacher is in love with you for saying you’d make sure I took in some Parisian culture. Besides, it’s just one more day and he knows it's for a good cause.

“And that is, besides you surprising me a day early at a garden party?”

“For whatever you needed my help with, that’s what. You sounded so funny on the phone—”

“Really?”

“Really, Bruce.” Dick waited, but Bruce obviously wasn't going to say anything else. Dick took a deep breath and decided to move on. “And—”

“Yes?”

“What?”

“Is there another reason?”

“Well, yeah, Bruce.”

“You mean ‘yes, Bruce.’”

“What?”

“Yes. Not yeah, please.”

Dick sighed. “Yes, Bruce. I wanted to see if I could fool you.”

Bruce cocked an amused eyebrow.

“I mean, I know I didn’t fool you for long. But I did surprise you. I just wanted to,” Dick hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “show you what I could do. Get to try out my disguise skills on somebody… like you.”

“Indeed.” Bruce brought his hand up to Dick’s face. “Somebody exactly like me.” He ran his index finger over Dick’s upper lip, tracing the thin line of the false mustache. “Although you’ve done that many, many times before, Dick.”

“Bruce, that tickles. And I’ve only ever been Robbie Malone before.”  
Bruce’s eyes narrowed, his finger stilling. “Now, Dick, you know that’s not exactly accurate. Really now.”

“And a girl. I’ve been a girl,” Dick cut in, just to get it over with. “Back before I was—like I am now.” He took a very small step backwards, away from Bruce’s ticklish finger, and looked down at the thick, expensive hotel room rug.

“Dick?” Bruce closed the distance between them, moving his hand to Dick’s chin and raising it until he was staring right into Bruce’s dark blue eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m too old to play a girl—now—Bruce.” Dick took a deep breath and tried to plaster on his gamest smile. “Look at me. I’m old enough to wear a fake mustache and fool people with it.”

“Ah.” Bruce smiled. It was a small smile, and either very gentle, or very strained. His eyes weren’t meeting Dick’s anymore, but focused somewhere past him. Still holding Dick’s chin, he absently stroked Dick’s cheek with his thumb. “You are indeed turning from an exceptional boy into an exceptional young man.”

Dick felt his cheek heat with a blush under Bruce’s thumb. “Gosh, Bruce,” he said, and pulled away slightly to get Bruce to let go.

“Mm hm.” Bruce interrupted. He didn’t seem to be really listening, and his eyes were still a little far-off. “Is it an homage to Matches?” he asked, testing the ends of the appliance, tugging gently, then rubbing the pad of his thumb against the grain.

“Um, maybe? I didn’t really think about it.” It was weird to talk when his lips were brushing against someone else’s fingers. “Seriously, Bruce.” Dick ducked his head to dodge Bruce’s hand and escape the tickling sensation. “Wouldn’t it be a great disguise for me to use on this job?”

“On a job, perhaps. Actually, I had something else in mind for this particular case.”

“I thought you might—”

“So you decided to sway me into trying something else?” Bruce smiled indulgently. “What do you call this character you’ve developed, Dick?”

“Dave Mathews.”

“Well, Dave Mathews, I have an appointment to keep, but I’d love to fill you in on all the details of this case. Perhaps over dinner?”

“Sure, Bruce.”

Bruce checked his watch. It’s three now. I have a suspect I’m shadowing with a three-thirty appointment at the Arc de Triomphe.

“Need backup, boss?” Dick asked, hopeful.

Bruce shook his head. “Regrettably, no. You need to be briefed first, and I won’t have time until tonight. That’s part of the reason I wanted you to come tomorrow. That, and I didn’t want you to miss any more school than was absolutely necessary.”

“It’s really okay with the school, Bruce.”

“Hmm. Says the young man who is ‘all grown up’. Well, I did promise them I’d see to it that you studied while you were here. Where are your books?”

“The airlines lost one of my bags. Luckily,” Dick said, rolling his eyes, “I had my books in the case I carried on.” Dick gestured toward the small case in the sitting area.

Bruce clapped a hand on his back in commiseration. “Well, hit the books for a bit, Dick. I’m going to keep an eye on a dragon lady and her mystery contact.”

“Sounds interesting! I’d sure like to hear about it.”

Bruce shrugged. “It’s nothing compared to everyday Gotham patrol, but we’ll have a nice dinner together tonight and I’ll catch you up on everything.”

***

Dick tried to focus on trigonometry, then something for World Lit, but the Paris afternoon and the chaise lounge on the balcony lured him into a nap. He fell asleep with The Iliad open across his chest, and woke to find that the afternoon was turning to evening, the shadows were getting longer, and that one shadow in particular was looming over him, the barest hint of a smile ghosting over Bruce’s face.

“Good book, Dick?” Bruce said, wryly cocking an eyebrow.

“Hey, I think I had jet lag.” Dick yawned, stretching his arms. “How’d surveillance go?”

“Mostly a waste of time, I’m afraid.” Bruce shrugged. “Dick, about these…” he held up a sheaf of papers he’d retrieved from the sitting room.

“Uh-huh. I put them out for you.”

“I’ve read the first few pages.”

“Good. You can see nothing has really—”

“You typed these reports.” Bruce interrupted, pacing a few steps back and forth in front of Dick’s chair.

“Yes…”

“You coded them.” Bruce turned and strode inside, where Gotham’s daily reports were fanned across the table.

Dick jumped up and followed. “Well, yes.”

“I thought Clark was going to do that.”

“Bruce,” Dick said, sinking into one of the two the heavily upholstered couches. “He’s just not as good at that stuff.”

“Hmm.” Bruce frowned, sitting down on the opposite couch. He gathered the stack of reports, then abruptly changed the subject. “Ready for dinner?”

“I guess so. Isn’t it a little early?”

Bruce shrugged. “Going like that? The mustache makes you look older, I think.”

“What if we run into your little friend?”

“Who?”

“Petit chou chou?”

“Lorena? I was only entertaining the poor girl because she seemed lonely.”

Dick snorted, leaning back to flop down and lie on the couch. “Sure, Bruce.”

“Actually, it’s part of my cover here, entertaining Lorena.”

“Yeah. Well, okay, boss. She did seem a little young, though. A lot young, really. But what if we see her?”

“She’ll just have to think,” Bruce’s tone is playful, “that I prefer a certain member of the DuMarier help staff as my dinner companion, that’s all. Unless you’d prefer I don some disguise as well? I could slum it a bit, too.”

“Really? That would be so much fun, Bruce. But maybe not full Matches Malone, okay, Bruce?”

“Don’t you like the plaid, Dick?”

“Well, it’s just that I’m not Robbie tonight. I’m…Dave Mathews. An average Joe.”

“Ah. I see.” Bruce beamed at him.

“You did say I couldn’t always be Robby Malone, Bruce.”

“Indeed I did. Perhaps I can just be an average joe as well tonight. Something between Matches Malone and Millionaire Playboy.”

“Neither one of them are average, Bruce.”

“My point entirely, Dick.”

“But closer to Matches than Millionaire, right?”

“On the spectrum, yes. I’ll just part my hair differently, let myself show a bit of a five o’clock shadow, dress down a bit. We could go and see how the other half lives, over something plebian.”

“Yeah!” Dick said, and then sat up. Mentally noting with a smile that somehow his brain was connecting poor grammar with poor posture, he sat up a little straighter, waiting for Bruce to correct his slang.

Bruce, however, was already heading to change clothes and didn’t seem the least perturbed.

Dick called after him, relaxed silliness creeping into his voice. “We could get hamburgers!”

“I hardly think Alfred would forgive me for allowing you to eat like that in one of the great cities of the worl—”

“But we would be enjoying the local food,“ Dick yelled back, setting up his punch line, “if we got ‘French’ fries!”

Bruce’s groan was audible, but Dick could only just laugh as he collapsed back into the couch cushions.


	2. Bon Appetit

Chapter 2

The café was warm and homey, small and family-run. They were the first dinner guests, and the owner seated them at the nicest of his four tables, then brought out some bread and a bottle of wine. No hamburgers on the menu at all. Coq au vin, foie de veau and escargot would have to suffice. And those dishes sounded a little ritzy for two average Joes out on the town, until Bruce explained that coq au vin was just a way to make a tough rooster taste delicious by simmering it in wine all day, foie de veau was some kind of liver and l’escargot de Bourgogne was just a fancy way of saying snail.

“Really Dick, I cannot believe you’ve avoided the delicacy for as long as you have,” Bruce said, motioning toward the appetizer he’d ordered for the two of them. 

Dick eyed the escargot suspiciously, shells and small bits of dark flesh swimming in butter and flecks of parsley. “It’s just the idea, Bruce.”

“Every seventeen-year-old ward of a millionaire should at least have a slight taste for the finer things,” Bruce said, cutting another slice of baguette.

“They’re snails, Bruce. I’m not sure that qualifies as a ‘finer’ thing,”

“You’re going to be in a situation—a formal dinner—where eventually, you’ll need to enjoy them.” Bruce said. Expertly, he finessed one of the small tidbits of meat from its shell. “Without making that face, Dick,” Bruce teased. “They really are quite delicious.” Speared on his fork, he swirled it through the sauce on the plate, but instead of eating the morsel, he cupped his other hand under the dangling crescent of flesh, ready to catch any drips of butter, and brought it to Dick’s mouth. “Try it.”

“I don’t think…” Dick started to protest, but Bruce’s cocked eyebrow was a dare, so he took it, parting his lips and letting Bruce feed him the delicacy. It was… slimy, but firm. Speculative, he began to chew, wondering if his face looked as disgusted as he felt.

Bruce watched him, taking a sip of Pinot Noir, then watching him some more as he took another sip, his smile growing the entire time. “Is it the texture?”

“I think so,” Dick said, grimacing. “It’s—it doesn’t seem to get any smaller in my mouth, is all. It feels like it’s getting bigger…” He reached for his Coca Cola. “Feels like I can’t swallow it.” 

Bruce smiled a little, digging in and eating one with relish. “Maybe it’s an acquired taste.” 

“Maybe,” Dick agreed, taking a swig of his soda. And then coughed, choking.

Instantly, Bruce reached across the table to pound Dick’s back. “Okay, chum?”

Dick nodded, then sputtered a ‘yes‘, wiping his face with his napkin. “I’m fine,” he added, embarrassed. “I just forgot they serve the cokes warm here, is all.” 

“Would you like a sip of wine?”

“Can I?”

“Eventually, you’re going to be in a situation where that will be a necessary evil, as well. I see no problem with one small glass of the celebratory drink of Bacchus. The waiter did bring two glasses.” Bruce picked up Dick’s goblet. “When in Rome, as it were.” He poured. “And did I see you ‘reading’ _The Iliad_ while you napped on the veranda?”

“Yeah—I mean yes.” Dick tried the Pinot. It was bitter, a little heavy on his tongue, not as sweet as he would’ve thought or liked, but not too bad. “We’ve got a test on it next week.”

“Ah, Homer. How far along are you?”

“Patroclus is impersonating Achilles.”

“Mmm.” Bruce nodded. “By wearing Achilles’ armor. What do you think of the story?”

“It’s okay, I guess.”

“And your other subjects? Calculus? Latin?”

“Good.” Dick tried another sip of wine. He wanted the snail—well, not the taste, so much, because it just tasted like butter and garlic—but he wanted the memory of that texture out of his mouth. By the third sip, the wine tasted better. Less bitter, more tangy, like maybe his mouth was getting used to it.

“How are things back in Gotham?”

“Fine, Bruce—you saw the daily reports.”

“I’ll finish them when we return to the hotel. How is Gotham functioning without Batman and Robin?”

“Well, as far as anybody knows…”

“It’s still got Batman, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And how is Clark doing?”

“Superman is doing alright, keeping an ear out.” 

“With plenty of help from you, it would seem. I wonder how he’ll manage now that you are here helping me.” Bruce’s tone was—Dick couldn’t quite place it. He sounded almost… what? Jealous? 

He wasn’t sure. Dick took another sip of wine, thinking, then decided to break the silence. 

“You miss being Batman right?” 

“I am—” Bruce began, then sighed. “I find it trying to be here instead of Gotham, and having to be Bruce Wayne, with no recourse to my other persona or any of its… advantages, Dick.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick saw their waiter approach. 

“Look, I believe our main courses are here,” Bruce said, smiling as though they’d been discussing the World Series.

When the man departed, Bruce continued. “No lab, no gym, or at least only sub-par spa-type gyms—the only kind I can get away with in my socialite role—no computer, no one to spar with,” he ran a hand through his hair, then rolled his eyes at Dick, sheepish. “Here I am complaining. Anyone else would be happy to have a Parisian holiday. And it hasn’t even been all holiday. Certain aspects of the case here have been quite stimulating, really. Although I must admit that I feel terribly… antsy? Is that the word you’d use, Dick?”

Dick nodded, grinning. “We can spar tonight, if you want.”

“Perhaps not tonight, Dick.” Bruce smiled, but the smile didn’t quite make it to his eyes this time. 

“Weren’t you going to tell me about the case here?”

“Certainly,” Bruce said, shaking his head and the far-away look, refilling his own glass and pouring a bit more in Dick‘s own. 

Dick had another sip. The heavy, spicy taste was definitely growing on him. 

“It’s really a game of cat and mouse, Dick. You know about the Treasures of the Amazon exhibit, correct?”

“Yeah, Bruce. Our whole high school junior class went on a field trip to see it.”

“Then you know the exhibit is a joint venture between the Gotham Museum of Antiquities and Brazil.”

Dick nodded.

“It was quite a coup for Gotham to host the exhibit, and contribute a number of appropriate pieces to the combination of ancient, priceless artifacts.” 

“And now it’s here, at its next stop, Paris.”

“Yes. And Bruce Wayne, Gotham society gadabout and philanthropist, is here in ambassador role to accompany the tour. But in reality, important pieces are in danger—and the pattern strongly suggests that the goods will be used to fund communist activities.”

“Communists?”

“Shh, Dick. Keep your voice down.”

“Sorry. I just thought… wow!” 

Bruce nodded. “Their plan is twofold, I believe. One, to fund an uprising. Brazil going red would be the coup of the century. And two, to cause an international incident that embarrasses the United States. 

"What?"

“By shaming Gotham. The theft will be placed squarely on the shoulders of the Americans who allowed the loss of the major treasure, one of the great historical antiquities. Most importantly, the legendary piece known as the Maiden’s Sacrifice.”

“That necklace? They’re trying to steal that necklace? I saw that, Bruce. On the field trip. All those emeralds. It’s a really big deal. There were guards everywhere. How are they gonna steal that?”

Bruce leaned closer, continuing in a low voice. “It already _was_ stolen. Back in Gotham. Substituted with a worthless copy. 

Dick realized his mouth was hanging open. He shut it, quickly. “So what’s the plan, boss?”

“We’re going to substitute the substitute.”

“Gosh, how?” 

“Right under their noses. During a party, being given in honor of the delegation.”

“Good thing I brought my dress tuxedo.”

Bruce ate another bite of… rooster. “The food certainly is delicious, isn’t it?” 

“It is. I’m glad we slummed it tonight.” Dick felt his words slowing, slurring just a little, like they were as thick in his mouth as the wine had been.

Bruce paused. “Are you alright, Dick?”

“I’m fine. It’s a little warm in here, maybe?”

Bruce tilted his head, looking closely at him. “No more wine for you, I think.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m fine. I think it’s just the jet lag again.”

Bruce smiled at him, nodding gently.

***

“Mr. Wayne!” a voice called across the lobby of the Ritz. It was the bellboy, and he had three pieces of correspondence for Bruce. 

As they entered the elevator, Bruce thumbed through them. “Ah, one from Lucius, one from Alfred. I must tell Alfred that I’ve finally had a meal here that could rival his own cooking. And I have you to thank as well, Dick. Tonight’s choice was better than the ‘fine’ restaurants Bruce Wayne has been enjoying.”

“Huh. The ritzy joints aren’t what they’re cracked up to be?”

“I’d rather be home, Dick. I miss Alfred’s cooking. And the dinner company as well.” 

Dick ducked his head. “What? The jet set debutantes aren’t doing it for—”

The elevator dinged and opened on their floor.

“They are silly sycophants only too happy to pander to the whims of a vapid playboy. I’ll be glad when this job is done and the jewels are back where they belong.”

“But see, I don’t get why you’re doing it. Two weeks away from Gotham? And you didn’t even—”

“Didn’t even what?” Bruce paused; hand on the hotel room door.

“Explain anything.” Dick said, sighing louder than he meant to. His brain felt fuzzy, but in a warm, good way. “That’s what I don’t get, Bruce. Why you had to leave in such a hurry, without even telling me.”

“There wasn’t time. You were at school.” 

“It’s just that after that—after I—after what happened." He hesitated, then pushed on. “After what happened, I—”

The hotel room was dark, and as they entered, Bruce tripped. 

Dick gasped. That might be, he thought, the first time he’d ever seen Bruce trip by accident. He’d seen it faked before, clumsy for the ‘sycophants,’ but this was real. 

“This lack of being Batman,” Bruce explained, rueful and embarrassed. “Two weeks without my alter ego apparently leads to clumsiness and a reduction in my night vision capabilities.”

“Sorry.” Dick switched on the light. “It doesn’t help when my lost luggage shows up and gets left right in front of the door. You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Bruce leaned against the loveseat, massaging his ankle. 

“Do you want to go over those reports?”

“Hit the sack, Dick. We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.” 

Dick picked up his suitcase. “Which room?”

“On the left,” Bruce said, opening his mail.

Moments later, Dick was back. “Bruce, there are dresses in that closet.”

"Hmm?" Bruce looked up from the letter he’d been reading.

“Dresses. And—" Dick angrily waved a shoebox at Bruce. "And shoes. Women's shoes!" The box was beginning to crush in his grip. "They aren’t for me, are they?”


	3. Meanwhile, Back in Gotham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Gotham, Superman is playing at being Batman. He runs into... trouble. And she's dressed all in purple and green.

Harder than he thought, putting in another appearance in Gotham. Was one thing helping Dick out, a whole other thing playing Batman solo. Hadn’t wanted to, didn’t think Bruce would ask. And Bruce hadn’t, but Dick had.

“Clark, could you just swing by a couple of times while we’re gone? Keep the local thugs on their toes? Don’t want the criminal element to get too… complacent. Me and Bruce got a job to do overseas.”

So he had, last night and this one. Lois was on assignment in Ceylon, anyway. And Metropolis was quiet, so… might as well make himself useful for an hour or two.

The cowl was a hassle, though. In fact, all of this Bat gear was a pain. Especially on a hot night, like tonight. How Bruce put up with it all these years was—did he have a summer suit? Because, Jeez, you really had to like leather. And body armor, a lot. To wear this thing.

Being Kryptonian didn’t stop you from sweating, and he was already too warm when he made it to the fire raging at 42nd and Finger.

A quick scan showed three people in Acme Supplies, where the fire was worst. Two night watchmen and a pizza delivery guy. He deposited the last man on the sidewalk just as the first fire truck arrived on the scene.

Flames licked at the walls of the next building, Schwartz’s Diamonds. Just one person in that two-storey—a woman. He punched a hole through from the back of the warehouse to get close, but whoever she was, she was moving fast. He didn’t see her until she was on him.

Just a “Hello, Tiger,” as she pounced, and her whole, squirming body was thrown against his. She landed in his arms, wrapped around him, leather catsuit and body heat, arms around his neck, thighs around his hips, her body pushing and writhing against his and for the first time tonight he’s actually glad he’s in the batsuit, because—well, no wonder Bruce wears a heftier codpiece than Superman.

Catwoman ground against him, pelvis to pelvis and he could… he could smell her, sweat and… other scents and it—God, he missed Lois.

Lips on his, harsh and hot and without even thinking, he opened his mouth to let her tongue push inside, demanding. As soon as he did, she yanked away to give a sudden, savage little bite to the side of his jaw, so hard and unexpected that he almost yelped.

Her breath was a hiss in his ear. A disappointed hiss.

“You’re not him.”

“No ma’am.”

She laughed, halfway between a purr and a growl, settling her hips even snugger around his… lower regions as she pulled back to see his face, hands on his biceps.

“Who are you then, Big Boy?”

“I’m, um—” He cleared his throat. “A friend.”

“I see.” She looked over her shoulder at his hands, where Batman’s right and left gauntlet gripped a plump, muscular, perfectly rounded rear end.

One of them, completely of its own accord, had been squeezing. He… made it stop doing that.

Her teeth flashed in a sharp smile. “So… friend? You gonna put me down anytime soon?”


	4. May I Have this Dance, Beau Garçon?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Paris, Dick has a question about those shoes that were in his closet.

“These aren’t for me, are they?"

Bruce's smile stayed frozen in place. After a moment, he nodded, slowly. 

“Geez, B. I don’t want to do it. I don’t. Can’t you see that I’m too…”

“The only reason we might even get away with it this time, Dick, is if we truly practice the art of disguise. To its highest art, because you are most certainly not a girl.”

Dick stared down into the open shoebox.

“Do they fit?”

“What?” Dick rubbed the back of his neck.

Bruce repeated himself, pausing between each word as though he were speaking to a five-year old. “Do they fit?” He stood, taking the box from Dick’s hands, and pulling out a shoe. “You seem to have grown larger in only two weeks. Can your feet still fit into a women’s size nine?”

“I don’t know, Bruce, but that’s not the—” Dick could have sworn the wine was making it harder to think, harder to argue.

“Sit down.”

Without even thinking, just following the tone of the voice, Dick sank into the loveseat.

“Good boy.” Crouching in front of him, Bruce patted Dick’s left knee and reached for his ankle.

“Bruce, I don’t want to be a girl again. I’m too old, and it—”

Bruce pulled off his penny loafer, then his sock. Holding Dick’s foot by the heel, he slid on the woman’s shoe, eyeballing it and rubbing the toe, trying to feel for Dick’s foot through the leather. “This one’s okay. Your right foot is a trifle bigger, though, so let’s try it, too.”

“Bruce, I don’t--”

“Don’t whine, Dick. It’s unbecoming a master detective. Give me your other foot.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Dick stuck out his right foot and waited grimly while Bruce put on the other shoe, then smiled up at him from his spot in front of the loveseat. As he stood, he tousled Dick’s hair. “It’s okay, Dick. It’s for the mission. Stand up now. You’ll want to practice in them.” 

“What?”

Bruce reached for his hands and pulled him to his feet, then gave him a little push toward the balcony. “Walk to the door and back.” He sighed as Dick grudgingly complied. “No, smaller steps. Much smaller. You know this, Dick.”

“Oh, I know this, all right. That’s the prob—”

“Tightrope and straight line,” Bruce said, watching. “Put all of your weight in the ball of your foot, please.” 

Dick made it to the door, turned around, and returned.

“Now, can you waltz in them?”

“What?”

“There’ll be dancing." Bruce was speaking very slowly again and it was becoming more and more annoying. "Can you waltz in them?”

“Probably, Bruce.” Dick crossed his arms over his chest and sighed loudly. “The thing is, I don’t want to.”

“Mmm. I see.”

“Why do I always have to be the girl?”

”I’m really not built for it, Dick.”

“And I am?” He straightened, puffing out his chest. “Bruce, seriously. Look at me.”

“You are a very masculine young man, Dick.” Bruce said, patting his shoulder. “But this one time, this one last time, I need you to do this.” Bruce crossed the room to the small, in-room radio set into the wall. He switched it on. Frank Sinatra was singing ‘Nice N' Easy.’ “And it’s not for me, Dick. It’s for your country.”

Dick scrubbed his face, then held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, boss,” he said as Bruce reached toward him, “but this is the absolute last time.”

“As you say, Dick.” 

Bruce’s left hand was cool in his as Dick clasped it in his own right and raised it to eye level. 

“Waltz?”

“You mean to the wrong kind of music? It’s bad enough I have to do it backwards, and in high heels.”

“Let’s see if those dance lessons paid off. Miss Mitzi has always prided herself on being Gotham’s best teacher.” 

“But the music’s—I mean it’s dance music, but it’s not three-four.”

“Foxtrot, then.” Bruce placed his right hand on Dick’s shoulder blade. “Such a purist. No wonder you were Miss Mitzi’s star pupil.”

Dick rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t the star pupil.”

“She loved dancing with you.” Bruce teased. “Ready? Slow, slow, quick quick, right?”

“Right.” 

“On three. One, two, three.” They began to move. “Dick? You’re not leading. I am.”

“Hey, you’re not the one having to do things backwards, Bruce.”

“And I don’t have your grace, either,” Bruce said. 

“Grace? Bruce, that’s not very manly word.”

“I wasn’t aware that the word ‘grace’ had a gender. I’m pressing my hand into your shoulder blade a little harder. Maybe that will help you remember to follow.”

“Sorry. It’s—I’m not used to it.”

“I know.”

Dick took a deep breath and willed himself to give up, to let himself be led.

“You’re doing fine. That’s it.” 

“My brain, the muscle memory—just making the shift is all.” 

“Dick, I knew you were the star pupil.”

“Her perfume, it was so strong,” Dick said, smiling despite himself as he relaxed, his movements becoming more fluid. “It’d give me a headache by the end of class, and then when I’d leave, I’d smell like her.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Do you remember the time—”

“The time that crook smelled it on me on the street?”

”I seem to remember you knocked him a little extra hard. After he said, what was it?”

“That I ‘stank like a flower shop.’ Jerk. I already had him nailed, on the ground and was cuffing him. I probably was a little too rough on him,” Dick said, his grin rueful. “And man, I made sure I scrubbed down hard after every dance class after that. Good thing you only made me sign up for the six-week course.”

“Every young man needs to know how to dance with a la—,” Bruce began, then stopped himself, as he realized what he had been going to say.

“Or like one, right boss?” 

“Hmm,” Bruce responded, noncommittal. “It’s very much a worthwhile skill, dancing. And isn’t Cotillion coming up for you? Let’s try a turn, please.” 

“Do we have room?”

”Wait. Let me move that table.” He pushed the report-strewn table a few feet. “By the way, Dick. I reviewed the files for daily criminal activity,” Bruce said, back in place. “Now,” he said, spinning Dick gently. “Perfect.”

Dick grinned.

“It seems there are quite a few mentions of Robin in the reports.”

“Um, yes,” Dick nodded as Bruce edged him backwards in the dance. “Supes needed my help.”

“How so?” Bruce arched an eyebrow. “I thought I left you to study for mid-terms, perhaps spend some time with your friends.” 

“I did that, Bruce. But Clark needed me and—”

“Yes?” Bruce’s mouth was drawn into a tight line. 

“Superman’s really, really great, he’s strong and it’s fun to fly with him.”

Bruce’s eyebrow went higher, and his grip got a little firmer as he turned his partner. 

“But he’s just not as smart as Batman.”

Bruce’s left hand and his jaw relaxed. 

“He had to get me to show him every time he wanted to use the computer.”

“Hmm.” 

“Do you know that he can’t even run a perp list on the Bat Computer?”

“You don’t say.” Bruce’s tone was impossibly dry. “I really must show him sometime.”

Frank's song ended and ‘Girl from Ipanema’ poured into the room from the wall speaker. They both compensated for the tempo change with a slight alteration of step. 

“Sometimes he thought I should go out with him, too.”

“Because?”

“Well, he had a point. How would it look if it was only Batman with no Robin all of a sudden?” 

“If I had wanted you to sacrifice your study time, I’d have brought you over here sooner.”

“I didn’t sacri—” 

“It’s just that I,” Bruce turned him so hard Dick gasped at the suddenness. “I could’ve used your help, here, Dick.”

“Well, that’s different.” They were both grinning, now.

“Did you get to spend some time with your friends?” 

“A little. A bunch of us went to the movies. And out for malteds.”

“Alfred mentioned something about that. He was pleased." Bruce smiled, his eyes a little distant. "He said he thought it was good for you. Let's try another turn, please."

Dick nodded. 

"And isn’t Cotillion coming up?” 

“The spring dance? It’s this weekend.” 

“Oh.” Bruce froze, then looked down at him. “I’m sorry, Dick.”

“Hey, it’s the mission, right? Come on, Bruce. Don't stop now. This is the good part of the song.” 

“Did you have to cancel a date?”

“Well, kind of.” 

“Dick, I’m so sorry.”

“Them’s the breaks, right, Bruce?” Dick shrugged. He nudged Bruce with his knee to get him moving again. “It’s not like you get to have a normal social life either…” Dick trailed off as Bruce’s eyes widened and the grip on his hand became much too tight. “Oh. I didn’t mean—I didn’t…” Dick could feel his face flushing. 

“Dick, I’m so sorry….” Bruce looked lost. 

Believe me, Bruce. You’re not the only one, Dick thought but didn’t say. 

Bruce's face—Dick had never, ever seen this look before and he never wanted to see it again. Shame didn't belong there, and the flush … were Bruce's cheeks flushing a little, too? This was completely new. And the most uncomfortable Dick’d felt since his last full physical. He compared the two in his mind. Worse, this was worse. Exponentially worse. He searched his brain for something, anything. Aloud he said, “Bruce, you think the only dance they’ll do at this gig is the foxtrot? Maybe we should work on something else.”

For a minute Bruce’s mouth moved without saying anything, like a just-caught fish. But because of Dick, he got himself together. Bruce’s jaw was tense, his mouth a thin line, and his hand was still gripping Dick’s much too firmly, but at least his words were glib. “Let’s try the Cha Cha Cha.”

“Did my foxtrot pass muster, then?” Dick was only too glad to return to the present. 

“If you can keep fighting your tendency to lead,” Bruce said, lowering their hands to waist level as they both adjusted their foot position, “you’ll do beautifully.” He steered his partner across the newly cleared floor space. Ready? Slow, slow, quick quick, slow. And even if your foxtrot wasn’t up to speed,” he added, cocking his head toward the radio, “Papa Loves Mambo is much more amenable to something uptempo.” 

“Oh, Bruce knows his old music. Get with the times, Bruce.”

“It’s hardly that old, Dick,” Bruce said. “Papa Loves Mambo is only about…” he didn’t finish, clearly computing. “Well, I have danced to it many times before.”

“If it’s a Mambo, why are we doing the Cha Cha?”

”Do you know the Mambo?”

“Hey, star pupil here. We learned every dance,” Dick laughed, executing a perfect turn. “The question is, do you?” 

“That sounds like a challenge, Dick.” Bruce said, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow. “Let me show you. Forward first, please,” he said, leading Dick toward him. “Now back, and one-two-three,” he said, working the two of them toward the door. “And up now, one-two-three…” 

“Not bad for an old guy.”

“I’ll show you ‘old guy.’” Bruce said, squeezing his hand for just a moment.

“Sturdy hold’s good, but it must be absent strain or tension, Bruce.”

“Mmm hmm.” 

“That’s straight from Miss Mitzi.” 

“Song’s almost over. Ready for the big finish?”

”You bet.” Dick laughed as Bruce dipped him. “Come on, Bruce. I’ve seen you do better.”

“Really?” 

“Only every time I’ve ever seen you dance. You’re not dancing with me like I’m—” Dick grinned, shrugging, “Like I’m a girl. Give it a little flourish.”

Bruce nodded, contrite. The next dip was perfect. Dick threw—very gracefully—his arm up and they ended the song with Dick suspended by his waist, back arched up, hand almost brushing the floor, Bruce smiling down at him. Accompanied by the sound… of applause.

Frozen in place, Bruce and Dick both looked up and toward the direction of the sound. 

On the balcony, bright red and blue in the Paris night, stood a goofily grinning, highly appreciative, Superman.


	5. Eavesdropping on the World's Finest

Frozen in place, Bruce and Dick both looked up toward the direction of the sound. 

On the balcony, bright red and blue in the Paris night, stood a goofily grinning, highly appreciative… Superman.

“Clark,” Bruce said, sighing like he had a migraine.

“Bruce,” Superman’s grin had never been bigger. “Dick,” he said, nodding.

“Superman!” Dick said, as Bruce lifted him into a standing position. He ran to open the glass door. 

“Good idea, Dick. Bring the dancing out onto the patio,” Supes said, his voice filled with barely suppressed laughter. “It’s a beautiful night.” 

“Hey, we’re working here,” Dick frowned, then laughed at himself. “I mean, really. We are.”

“I see,” Superman said, clapping his hand on Dick’s back, nodding sagely while biting back his grin. “So that’s what they’re calling it these days?” He hugged Dick, lifting him off the ground for just a second. Dick could feel his high heels dangling from his toes. 

“Watch the shoes,” Bruce said.

“And they are very smart… pumps, I think Lois calls them. Latest Paris fashion?” Clark joked, carefully lowering Dick, a hand on his shoulder, the other on his hips. Slowly, watching as he did so, so that Dick could settle properly into the shoes. “You have very dainty ankles, Dick.” 

“When Superman’s through with his one-liners, perhaps you’ll bring him in off the veranda,” Bruce said, sweeping toward the radio to turn the music down. 

Dick rolled his eyes, pulling Superman into the sitting area. Back-kicking one leg up at a time, he yanked the shoes off by the pointy heels and tossed them, gently, but quickly—just getting it done before Bruce turned around—into a far corner.

“Dick,” Superman said, faking a pout. “Does that mean I’m not going to get to dance with you?”

“Sorry, Supes.” Dick put on his own sad-eyed moue. “My dance card’s already full tonight.” He punched the man of steel in the shoulder playfully.

Superman caught him in another quick hug, then gasped. “Dick, you smell like wine!” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked from Dick to Bruce in shock that was only partly good-humored, and completely scandalized. 

“Finer things, Clark,” Dick began.

“Surely,” Bruce interrupted. “Surely, Superman didn’t come all the way to Paris to regale us with super-acquired sensory information of which we are already aware.” Bruce crossed his own arms, mimicking Superman’s stance, daring him to say more. “Or did you need Dick’s help with the Bat Computer?”

Superman’s eyes opened a little wider at that. “Er, no, Bruce.” Clark looked slightly chastised, but his discomfiture quickly turned into a playful smile. “Besides,” he said, punching Dick gently in the arm before looking back to Bruce. “I’d hate for you to lose your dance partner.”

Bruce sighed. “We’re working on a case, Clark.”

Clark nodded, face very, very serious. “The Mambo is a very important part of any decent crime investigation…”

Bruce’s lips thinned as he pressed them together. “How are things in Gotham, Clark? Is there a problem?”

“Is there, Bruce?” Clark responded, a little more intense than usual.

“In Gotham.” Bruce responded.

“But—but,” Clark stammered. “But wine? Bruce!

Dick watched Bruce tilt his head, pretending to be absorbed in studying the nail on the index finger of his right hand. Waited.

“We are trying to thwart an international incident, Clark.” Bruce said, his tone clipped and dry.

“But really, Bruce. Really,” Clark stammered. “Wine? Bruce? He’s not even of legal age yet. And—“

“Dick,” Bruce said. “Why don’t you go down to the lobby and get Clark a coke. That should be wholesome enough.” He turned steely blue eyes on Superman. “And I’m sure he could use one. Couldn’t you, Clark?” 

“I’m okay,” Clark said. 

“He’s okay,” Dick said, not wanting to miss any of the riveting discussion that seemed to be revolving around himself and his maturity status.

“Flying all the way across the Atlantic, I’m sure you could use some refreshment. Dick will run and get one for you.” Bruce was almost glaring now.

Clark shrugged, shaking his head. “Sure, Bruce.”

Dick knew when they were trying to get rid of him. When Bruce, at least, was trying to get rid of him. Clark never did. “Sure,” he said, echoing Superman. But he slipped on his penny loafers as slowly as possible. “I might not even have to go all the way down to the lobby. There’s a machine on the next floor. They’ll even be cold. I’ll be right back with three.”

“Make that two,” Bruce said, nonplussed. “And Clark,” he said, turning his attention back to Superman, “he had part of a glass of wine. In Paris. With me. It’s all right.”

Clark did not look entirely convinced.

“So I’ll ask you again, Clark. What’s going on, in Gotham?” Bruce said. “Is there a problem?”

Clark waved his hand at the Paris sky, vaguely pointing towards North America. “Gotham’s fine, Bruce. I left it in Batgirl’s capable hands. I just have to go off world for a day or two.”

“You got any change, Bruce?” Dick interrupted, digging in his own pocket.

Not taking his eyes from Superman, Bruce lobbed Dick his wallet. “Off world?”

Fist flashing out, Dick caught the Hermes embossed square of leather handily, making Superman reward him with a smile at him before answering Bruce. 

“Resolve a little problem.” 

At Bruce’s raised eyebrow, Clark held out a hand in the stand down motion. “There’s nothing you can do, Bruce. I’ll take care of it.”

“Really a job for Superman, then?” Bruce said dryly. 

“We can’t all be international men of mystery like Batman and Robin, Bruce.” 

Dick grinned at that, thumbing through Bruce’s wallet. Some bills, a few business cards; a photo—his last school photo, he realized, surprised; some scribbled phone numbers and notes in Bruce’s distinct penmanship… and no coins. “No change, Bruce.”

“There’s some on my bedside table, then.”

Dick checked Bruce’s room, taking his time. Spying on Bruce and Clark a little from the bedroom, really, if he was honest with himself. He had a right to know, he rationalized, even as he felt a little guilty for rationalizing. Spying was beneath him. But this was so interesting, these were his partners and he was here on the mission. Just because he was younger than them was no reason to—he hovered at the bedroom door, listening. Superman had lowered his voice, and Dick had to work to hear the words.

“As long as I’m here, Bruce, I really want to mention something,” Clark began, ducking his head a little. “Whatever happened between the two of you…”

Bruce’s head whipped back to the bedroom door. Dick knew he must not be visible, because as quickly as he could, Bruce spit out, in an angry whisper, “It’s not your concern, Clark.” He looked back again, toward his room. “Dick?” he called.

Dick dodged into the bathroom that connected the suite’s two bedrooms. Shouting from there he yelled, “Just a minute, Bruce!” He flushed the toilet, sure they could hear it in the sitting area. When he darted back into Bruce’s room, Bruce had sunk down on the couch, and Superman was pacing back and forth in front of him.

“—he didn’t tell you about it, did he?” 

“Please. Dick takes being your partner very, very seriously Bruce. He’d never break a confidence. You know that. I—” Clark hesitated. “Judging from how upset he was, though…” he swiped a hand through his hair. “Maybe you should talk to him about… whatever it was that happened.” 

Dick jogged into the bathroom again to run some water, loudly. He left it running and went back to his post at the bedroom door, watching Clark wave his arms a little at Bruce from the seat he’d taken opposite him.

“And why have you got him in women’s heels? You’re not going to dress him up again, are you?”

“I need him to play the part of my niece, Clark.”

“Oh, Bruce.” Clark sighed, putting his head in his hands. “You can’t. He rubbed his large hand down from his forehead to his chin.

“What?”

“You can’t, Bruce. He’s too old.” Clark looked at Bruce like he was questioning his very sanity. And Dick wanted to hug him right now, really, really badly. “He’s past that. All you’ll end up doing is making people wonder why you have a boy dressed up as a girl.”

“I believe you may be underestimating –“

Clark threw up his hands. 

“Dick!” Bruce called, louder than before.

“Yes?” Dick answered, sure his voice sounded guilty. He turned off the running water.

“How’s that search for change coming along?” He was starting to get suspicious. 

“Oh!” Dick said, trying for casual nonchalance. “Fine! I found some!”

“Good to hear,” Bruce responded, in the tone that Dick knew meant business. 

“Be right back,” he said over his shoulder as he quickly crossed the sitting room, not looking at either one of them, lest they see the guilt on his face. The hotel door slammed behind him as Dick darted out, change jingling. Outside, in the hallway, he pressed his ear to the door, but he couldn’t hear a thing, darn it. He headed downstairs on his mission. 

Beverages acquired, and indeed chilled, he slowly opened the hotel room door. 

“I’m all ears.” Bruce was saying, folding his arms behind his head as he leaned back into the couch. “Tiger,” he finished, his eyes full of challenge. 

Dick’s eyes widened, the three green glass bottles clanking against each other as he fell into the couch next to Bruce. “Whoa!” he said, some of the soda bubbling over the top of the bottles. 

“I said I didn’t want a cola,” Bruce said as Dick handed him one. 

“Got you one anyway, B.,” Dick said, passing a coke to Superman, who grinned back at him and took a big swig. 

“Thanks, Dick.”

“Anytime, Clark.” Dick clinked his bottle to Superman’s, then Bruce’s, even though Bruce had already placed his on the coffee table. “So what’s up, guys?” 

Superman looked at Bruce, watching him as he lifted the bottle to his lips.

“What, guys?” Dick narrowed his eyes and looked at each of them in turn, suspicious. 

“It’s all right,” Bruce said, giving in. “You may continue.”

“She said it was about the—something called ‘The Maiden’s Sacrifice.’” 

Bruce nodded. “It’s a missing necklace. An antiquity.”

“She said you’d been asking around.”

Bruce nodded.

“And that the word on the street is that the thing may now be in the hands of someone called ‘The Doctor’.”

“Hmm.” Bruce nodded. “I thought as much. One of my fellow ambassadors on this tour.”

“Anything else? Did she say how she came by this information?”

Clark shook his head, draining the rest of his Coca-Cola in one swig. “She did say, that if you wanted a hand on the case, she’d come to Paris.”

“Batgirl might come?” Dick said, so excited that his voice squeaked a little with the last syllable.

“Settle down, Dick,” Clark teased, grinning at him with a lopsided smile.

“No one’s coming, Dick,” Bruce shook his head. “We’re lone rangers on this one.”

“Except—” Dick said, still a little mortified over his voice cracking and a little annoyed at Bruce’s choice of words.

“Lucky for you, then,” Clark interrupted, winking at Dick.

“What?” Bruce said, obviously distracted, already running scenarios in his head. Plotting his next move with the Doctor, whoever that was.

“That you’ve got such a good partner,” Clark tilted his head towards Dick.

Bruce came back to the present long enough to tousle Dick’s hair and smile at him. Standing, probably to hurry Superman out. Dick could tell he was already thinking about tomorrow. Aloud he said, “True.”

“He certainly did a great job in Gotham with me,” Superman said, following Bruce’s lead and heading toward the balcony. 

Blushing a little, Dick ran to open the glass door for him, and they all stepped out into the crisp spring evening. Below them, the Paris streets sparkled with city lights. Above, a million stars sparkled in the dark, cloudless sky. It was a beautiful night.

“You’re a lucky man, Batman,” Superman said, and his tone was the one he used when he wanted to say something very, very important. 

“I couldn’t ask for a better partner,” Bruce said.

“I could use his help now, as a matter of fact,” Superman said, chucking Dick’s chin. “Love to take him off world with me, right now.” 

“I know you would,” Bruce said mildly. “And I’m sure he would be of excellent service. Sadly, he’s needed here.” 

Dick felt his face color at the attention. Batman and Superman simultaneously beaming at him was a little too much to take. As Superman wrapped an arm around his shoulders in a goodbye clasp, he searched for something to say that might change the subject. “So if it wasn't Batgirl," he wished it was Batgirl, "who told you about the Doctor, Supes?” He took a gulp of his Coca-Cola, feeling the sweet, peppery carbonated bubbles slide across his tongue and down his throat. 

“Gotham’s best jewel thief, of course. The Catwoman.”

Dick choked on his soda.

“Are you alright, Dick?” Bruce said, turning to him, solicitous. 

Dick nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“They are fizzier here,” Clark offered helpfully. “Bubbles went up your nose?”

Dick made the ‘okay’ sign with his fingers, still coughing a little.

Bruce patted Dick’s back, absently. “That’s the second time this evening, actually. It’s the reason he had any wine at all.” He sighed. “This news about the Doctor is… helpful. Thank you, Clark. We are obliged.”

“I’m glad,” Superman said, shaking Bruce’s outstretched hand. 

“You will let us know when you return to earth?”

“I will,” Clark agreed, giving Dick a last, manly hug. “Don’t drink too much wine, Dick.”

“Okay, Supes.”

Superman stepped to the edge of the balcony, poised for take-off. 

Dick watched the man leap into the sky.

“And better watch out for those Coca-Colas, too,” Superman called as he surged upwards, his words and smile fading in the Paris night as he glided into the stratosphere.


	6. Declarations: Dick is a hero. No matter his disguise.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s like that with you, Dick. You will never be anything but the best. No matter what outer guise you employ. Not matter what costume you wear. You will,” Bruce said, his voice husky with pride, “always be a hero.”

Dick woke to Bruce’s, “Rise and shine!” as he opened the drapes, letting sunshine spill through the window and across Dick’s bed. 

Squinting at the bright light, Dick pulled his pillow over his head. “Bruce!” It was much earlier than he would’ve liked, under normal circumstances. Swimming up from sleep, he slowly adjusted to his new surroundings: a sunny hotel room, a foreign mission, the smell of coffee in the next room. 

Donning his robe, he wandered out to see Bruce—already fully dressed, poring over a map. More maps, notes, his utility belt and today’s newspaper were strewn around a tray of croissants, coffee and o.j. on the coffee table in front of him. 

“Good morning, Dick.” Bruce’s voice was the kind of cheery and bright that only comes from an early riser who’s been up for hours. “Sleep well?”

Dick yawned, sinking beside him on the loveseat. “Yeah. Morning. What’s up?” he said, reaching toward the breakfast options. 

“Setting out our plans for the day.”

Dick picked up the coffeepot and poured himself a cup.

“Well, I’m glad room service brought two cups.” Bruce looked at him disapprovingly. “When did this begin?”

“Huh?” Dick followed Bruce’s eyes to the coffee. “Oh, I don’t know. A while, I guess. You’re usually already in the study when I get down.” He added several cubes of sugar and some cream. He shrugged. “Alfred said it was okay.”

“Probably because it’s mostly milk,” Bruce wrinkled his mouth disdainfully. “I do not know where you learned to ruin—”

“Bruce,” Dick sighed, china cup frozen at his lips, just about to take a sip. “You always want it both ways, you know that?”

“I have no idea what you are referring—"

“First you don’t want me to have coffee, then it’s like I’m not having coffee the right way.”

Bruce’s lip quirked up at the corner for that. “Hmm.”

Dick drank his coffee. It was delicious.

“Getting back to the matter at hand, Dick, we’ve got quite a day in front of us.”

“Oh?”

“Let’s lay out our plan of action, shall we?” We have thirty-six hours to pull this off. We’re getting down to the wire.”

Dick brought his feet up, folding them under himself and leaned back on the couch’s armrest, coffee cup precariously balanced on his chest. “Lay it on me, Boss.”

“I’ve got a big day planned.”

“Shadowing this… this doctor?”

“For at least a portion of the day.”

“What’s the story on him, anyway?”

“He’s Lorena's father. He’s the reason I've befriended young Miss Lorena. Dr. Bernard arrived in France ten years ago from Brazil. He runs a small private hospital on the outskirts of the city.”

“Private hospital?”

“L’hôpital Saint Adelaide caters to certain wealthy society members. The place has a high level of security, but from what I’ve been able to discover,” Bruce said, pouring himself some orange juice, “it’s primary cover operation is that of an asylum of some kind, probably particularly for those commit themselves voluntarily, to lose weight.” 

Just to see if he could do it. Dick tried to take a sip of coffee without raising his cup, but instead lowering his chin to the coffee. It worked, he congratulated himself. “But how is he involved in the jewel heist?”

“He was not in Gotham when the robbery occurred, However, I believe an operative has since passed it off to him.”

Dick nodded.

“The doctor is involved with the exhibition by virtue of his standing as a leading local figure.”

“But he’s not on the up an up?” Dick tried to the same thing as before with his cup, but the coffee level had gotten too low. He took it off of his chest.

“Hardly. My investigation leads me to believe that his true nature is much more nefarious in character than that of the usual medical practitioner.”

“Really? What you got, Boss?”

“I believe,” Bruce said, looking at him with narrowed, steely eyes, “that the Good Doctor is in fact Professor Herman Gutrig, former Nazi war criminal.

Dick sat up, only just barely keeping his coffee from sloshing over his robe. “What? Nazis?”

“I believe so.” Bruce said grimly. “A particularly despicable Nazi scientist, known for the depravity of his experiments.”

“Gosh, Bruce.” Dick said, putting down his cup. “This is big.”

“Indeed it is.”

“But how,” Dick reached for a croissant. “What, I mean, does he want with the Reds?”

“Good point, Dick. Communism is not Fascism. There’s butter and jam there too, you know.” Bruce said. “Look under the map closest to my utility belt.” 

Dick found it and buttered his croissant with gusto. He was hungrier than he’d thought.

“But be that as it may,” Bruce continued, “I believe the Doctor has been promised an important role in the new communist regime and funding for some… new, and undoubtedly repugnant experiments, after the communists take over. And we know the Reds want Brazil.”

“Well, it borders on almost every country in South America,” Dick said, taking a huge bite of croissant.

“Good work, Dick! It would certainly be a feather in their cap.”

Dick pictured what a communist hat would look like and poured himself some orange juice. 

”Can you name the countries in South America not bordering Brazil?” Bruce asked.

Dick pretended to think about it. Gulping some juice to hurry and wash the bread down, he triumphantly answered. “Chile and Ecuador, right?”

“On the money, Dick!” Bruce was pleased. 

Dick congratulated himself. “So the Doctor has the necklace,” he mused.

“Perhaps,” Bruce said. 

“Catwoman seems to think so,” Dick said, raising an eyebrow.

“Mm hmm,” Bruce nodded, pouring himself some fresh coffee.

“Then… what next? Do we take him down?”

“I’m not sure it’s quite as easy as that, Dick. First of all, the man is not working alone. He’s got at least one more member of the antiquities entourage as co-conspirator. Possibly more.”

“Do you know who?”

”Our goal this morning is to narrow down the suspects The doctor’s wife, Madame DuMarier, Lorenas mother, is obviously involved. Several other members of the group associated with the museum tour are possible suspects. In addition, the Doctor has surrounded himself with bodyguards, and there is no way to know where he is keeping the necklace.”

“While he’s waiting to sell it, right?”

“Correct, Dick.”

“So what’s next?”

“Fulfilling my promise to your principal.” 

“What?”

Bruce pointed to the map of Paris. “I promised him, when I asked for your excused absence, that I’d further your classical education. So it’s off to the Louvre.”

“Oh, Bruce. Come on!” 

“You don’t like sightseeing?”

“Well, sure I do, Bruce. It’s just that—you know,” Dick tried. “It sounds silly to go sightseeing when the fate of the free world is—"

“Ah, but Dick,” Bruce nodded. “I believe we’re going to be able to kill two birds with one stone, as it were.”

“Well, I guess that’d be okay then,” Dick said, slightly doubtful. He started on another croissant.

“It’s going to be our cover, Dick. The ambassadors connected with the museum tour will be in evidence. It will give us ample opportunity to observe the main players in this little drama. I believe something important is going down this afternoon.”

“Oh?” 

”Yes. Something very important. A meeting. Of Reds.”

“Oh!”

“We’re going to infiltrate it.”

Dick fell back happily against the arm of the couch. He knew it couldn’t just be the coffee that was making his heart pound with excitement. 

Bruce looked at his watch. “If we’re to meet the entourage, we’ll need to be out of the hotel in an hour.”

”Okay, Bruce.” Dick sat up halfway and noticed Bruce staring toward the corner of the room and the heels he’d discarded last night. “I don’t have to go as a girl, do I?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his question. 

“Mmm. Well, I suppose you could if you’d like,” Bruce teased, hand snaking out to tickle Dick’s bare foot. 

“Stop it! Stop it, Bruce!” Dick laughed, kicking out to snatch his foot away. 

Bruce held up his hands in surrender. “But you’re going to play the role of my niece, and she isn’t due in Paris until tonight. So if you are dying to dress as a girl,” Bruce winked at him. “You’ll have to be yet another young lady.”

“Gosh, Bruce.” Dick rolled his eyes. “Guess I’ll have to pass.”

“But you also had probably better not go as Dick Grayson,” Bruce said. “Think you can you pull that off?” 

“I am a master of disguise, Bruce,” Dick folded his arms across his chest.

Speaking of disguise…” Bruce said, looking him up and down thoughtfully. “I may need to get your gown taken out a bit.”

“Bruce!” 

“Yes?”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

“Really?”

“And I heard Superman last night.”

“Oh did you? I am disappointed to hear you were eavesdropping, Dick. That’s hardly worthy—”

“I wasn’t exactly eavesdropping, Bruce. And it was about me.”

Bruce folded his own arms across his chest.

“Superman doesn’t think I should.”

“And is Superman your partner?” Bruce said, narrowing his eyes and staring Dick down.

Dick buried his face in his hands. “I just don’t want to, Bruce.” He knew he sounded childish. Petulant. He didn’t care.

“Dick,” Bruce said.

Dick didn’t raise his head, instead keeping his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. Softly, he felt Bruce’s finger on his chin, gently lifting his head. He opened his eyes, still feeling sullen.

“You have a brave and generous spirit, Dick,” Bruce tilted his own head, thoughtfully. “Hmm.” He slowly ran his finger against Dick’s chin. “Someday soon you’ll be shaving every day.” He sighed. “It’s true that you are growing up. And,” he added, “you are a warrior and a hero. You are—” He stopped, thinking. “You do know that Achilles himself, the best, bravest warrior in Greece, for a time passed himself off as a girl.”

Dick shrugged. 

“You do know that his mother, hoping to save him from war, dressed him as a girl? You do know that, Dick. Correct?”

Dick inclined his head.

Bruce lifted it up again.“Do you know what proved to be his undoing? Why Achilles’ true nature came through?”

”The weapons,” Dick said, his voice just a whisper.

“His courage, Dick. His courage. When he saw the weapons, brought in to find the true warrior among the maidens, he alone moved forward to inspect those perfectly forged swords and shields.” Bruce’s hand stilled. “Those weapons symbolized courage, and Achilles was its avatar.”

Dick looked up into Bruce’s eyes, dark and blue.

“When he saw the tools of his trade—his true calling, as the best warrior in Greece—as its perfect hero…” Bruce said, his voice dreamy and far-away, “his courage was impossible to hide.”

Dick nodded, feeling his face move in Bruce’s hand.

“It’s like that with you, Dick,” Bruce said, his thumb softly sweeping the line of Dick’s jaw. “You will never be anything but the best. No matter what outer guise you employ. No matter what costume you wear. You will,” he said, his voice husky with pride, “always be a hero.”

“Oh, Bruce.” Dick turned his head to the side, embarrassed. 

Bruce just looked at him for a moment. “And speaking of costumes, you must have grown a foot or two in the last two weeks.”

“Yeah. I mean yes. Alfred had to let out the hem in my tuxedo pants. Two inches.

“So he mentioned. Before you dress, let’s take a few measurements. Stand please.” Bruce reached into his utility belt and pulled out a tape measure. 

Reluctantly, Dick stood. 

“It’s the cold, metal kind. Sorry…” Bruce pushed away the robe to wrap the tape around Dick’s waist.

“Bruce, that tickles!” Dick said, pushing his hands away with a choked laugh. 

“Hmm. At least you’re smiling.” Bruce said, letting the tap roll up on itself with a snap. He made note of a Dick’s measurement on an index card, then looked at Dick brightly. “Shower and dress, young man. Then put on your mustache. We have work to do.”


	7. A Discovery. Or: Bruce gets jealous.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce makes a discovery.

“Sure thing, B,” Dick said, hopping off of the couch. “Hey, let’s have a little music, okay?”

Bruce made a noncommittal noise, but didn’t look up from his paperwork.

Dick fiddled with the radio. Static and foreign voices and then… the dial found something familiar. “Stagger Lee”. 

Dick bobbed his shoulders to the tune, sang along for a few bars of the “Go, Stagger Lee” chorus.

“That’s not a very wholesome song, Dick.”

Dick grinned, rolled his eyes, changed the station and found “Peppermint Twist.” He headed for the shower.

“Dick,” Bruce said sharply as Dick passed him. 

“Yeah?” He stopped, turned.

Bruce put his pen down. “Come here, please?”

Dick stepped closer to where Bruce was sitting on the edge of the small sofa. “Yes?”

“Let me see your thigh.”

“What?”

“Let me see your thigh, please?” Bruce reached out, pushing aside the fabric of Dick’s terrycloth robe to run his hand up Dick’s left leg, toward a large, ugly bruise, mottled greens and purples blooming out from just under the edge of the boxers he’d slept in. Bruce looked up at Dick, question in his eyes.

“Oh.” Dick shrugged. “Didn’t you see it a minute ago?”

“Wasn’t at eye level. And I was focused on a different set of data,” Bruce said, defensive. “And your comfort.”

“Yeah, Bruce.” Dick rolled his eyes. “You’re a real softie.” 

Bruce didn’t respond, testing the greenish skin on the outer edges of the contusion, thoughtful, professional. Like they were in the cave after patrol, doing damage inventory. 

“Bruce, it’s no big deal.” 

Bruce slipped a finger under the hem of the blue-striped cotton boxers, pushing them up for a better look.

“Come on, Bruce.” Dick sighed, put-upon. “My legs aren’t going to be on display for this thing, are they?” He started to take a step back.

Bruce’s other hand shot out to hold him in place, gripping his right leg just above the knee while he continued his appraisal. On the radio, a disc jockey spoke, then a new song, loud in the silence of the room, came through the speaker. “Fly Me to the Moon.” In French. The bruise was purple at its center, blood pooled under the surface, a two-inch cut crowning the swollen surface. Bruce poked it.

“Ow, Bruce!”

“What’s this from?” 

“What does it look like? I took a hit.”

“A particularly nasty hit, wasn’t it?”

“Well I think it’ll keep me out of any beauty contests for a week or two, yeah. It doesn’t matter, Bru—”

“How did you get this?” 

“How do you think?” Dick could hear a touch of sarcasm creeping into his voice. He tried to quell it. Bruce was just being himself, after all. “Patrol. A couple of nights ago.”

“I thought you were with Superman.” Bruce put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed once, then slowly swept his hand down Dick's side, from armpit to waist, feeling for damage. Watching Dick’s face. 

Dick knew he must have reacted, because Bruce rucked up his white T-shirt to look at the skin underneath, where another mark lurked. Bruce make a clucking sound of dismay, then pushed the boxers’ elastic waistband down far enough to see the shape of this blemish, just at and above Dick’s right hipbone. 

“That one,” Bruce’s voice was quiet, dangerously low, “looks like a handprint.” 

“Look, Bruce—”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed.

“He can’t keep me from getting bruised, B. Especially in shorts. It’s a hazard of the—I don’t know, business. Costume. You know that, boss.”

“Hmm.” Bruce lowered the waistband an inch further, enough to trace the pale finger shapes. “Turn, please.”

“Bruce!” Dick pushed his hand away. “Leave it alone.”

Bruce steered Dick into a quarter turn himself, pulling the robe further aside to look more closely. His hand ghosted over the gray remnants of the—well, it was a handprint, after all—pressing around Dick’s side to where the imprints of fingertips ended, near the bowl of his left hip. 

Dick was annoyed, but wriggled a little, involuntary. “Bruce, that tickles!” 

Bruce changed his touch, kneading the mark, thoughtful. Tilted his head, blue eyes boring into Dick’s own. 

Dick frowned back.

“Superman.”

It wasn’t a question, but Dick felt protective. “Who do you think, Bruce?”

“I see.” Bruce’s lips thinned. 

“I hope so!”

“Care to elaborate?”

“On what?” Dick pointed to his thigh, exasperated. “Lex Luthor.” 

Bruce’s eyebrow went higher, his eyes wider. “Do tell.” 

“Some kind of… weird new projectile he was trying out.”

“I see.” Bruce said again, his tone deadly. “A bullet.” 

“Not really, Bruce. A new kind of plastic alloy.” He hesitated. “I think. I didn’t finish the analysis yet.”

“You didn’t.” Bruce said, his grip on Dick’s waist getting tenser, harder. “Lex Luthor is using you for target practice, Superman is letting him, and you’re the one bringing the evidence home to analyze,” Bruce snapped. “Please tell me what’s wrong with this scenario.”

“Superman couldn’t, okay!”

“Kryptonite.” Bruce’s voice was quiet but furious. And he was going to leave a bruise of his own if he didn’t let go. “So you went to Metropolis?”

“Yeah, Bruce.”

“Yes, please,” Bruce corrected. 

“Yes, Bruce.” Dick shimmied his hips, loosening Bruce’s grip on him. “For like, an hour. Once.”

"And took a Kryptonite bullet for Superman."

Dick shrugged. "He'd do the same for me, Bru—"

“And this?” Bruce said, squeezing the handprint again before letting go. 

“You know.” 

“Do I?"

“Yes!”

“Tell me more, Dick.”

“To save me!” Dick crossed his arms, huffing. “Combat situation, Bruce.”

“Does the Man of Steel no longer know his own strength?”

Dick just glared at him.

“Turn around.” It was that voice, and Dick hated when Bruce used it against him this way, but he found himself turning all the same. His back to Bruce, he could see the lounge chairs on the terrace, buildings and trees and morning sunshine spilling across Paris. The radio station blared a commercial for Gitanes. “Like this?” Dick spat out, waiting. “You need to get a grip on—’’

“On what?” Bruce said, intense, quiet, bitter. In one fluid motion, he stood, pulling the robe from Dick’s shoulders, skinning it down his arms.

“What are you doing?” Dick snapped. 

Bruce tossed the robe aside.

“Bruce, you have really, really got to get a workout in.”

“Do I?” 

“Yes!” He felt hands under the waistband of his boxers, yanking them lower. “You’re strung—” A hand on his t-shirt, pushing it higher. “Strung way too tight, Bruce.” The air on suddenly exposed skin, still warm from sleep, made him shiver. Dick fought to steady his voice, be himself. “How long has it been since you spent a little time with the punching bag, Bruce?”

Bruce found the matching mark on the other side of his lower back. He squeezed it, too hard.

“Ouch, Bruce!”

“I’ve never known Clark to bruise you before, Dick.” Slowly, Bruce’s fingers lined up with the pattern of the bruise, matching his own hand to the print Superman had left behind. Thumb pressing into lower back, fingers splayed as they curved around to grasp Dick’s hips. First on the right side, then on the left, until Bruce was holding him, just as Superman had. 

“I don’t get the big deal about—”

Bruce, hands still in place, yanked him backwards, hard. 

Dick landed with an ‘oof’ against Bruce’s collarbone. He could smell Bruce’s aftershave, feel the starched cotton of the Brooks Brothers shirt, rough against the bared skin of his back.

“Was it like this, Dick?” Bruce’s voice was a whisper in his ear, cold and speculative.

“Bruce!” Dick gasped. Pushing away, he snatched his robe from the couch and slid into it, pulling the two sides close around him, covering. “I think he was just… was in a hurry.” Dick knotted the robe’s sash. “And shouldn't we be? Don’t we have someplace we need to be?”

Bruce set his shoulders, then his jaw, tense. He sat back down on the couch. “I’m sure we’ll manage.” 

Dick tried to process the tone. “My legs aren’t going to show in this dress, right?”

“What?” Bruce looked scandalized. “It’s a Dior, Dick. Of course not. Very tasteful.” He reached out to flip back a corner of terrycloth. Poked Dick’s thigh one more time for emphasis. “As long as your back and shoulders are unmarked…” 

Dick rolled his eyes. “Fine then, B. Are we done here?”

“Hmm.” Bruce slid his palm down the length of Dick’s thigh, to his knee, then back up again, pushing the light hairs there against the grain. 

“Bruce.” Dick took a calming breath and bit his lip, squeezing his eyes closed as he wrapped his hand around Bruce’s wrist, lifting Bruce’s palm from where it was placed on his inner thigh. “You can’t just go… doing that.”

“Oh.” And suddenly, it was just Bruce again. Bruce, who looked a bit odd but gave Dick his space, taking his hands away. 

Dick closed his robe again. Stepped back. “Bruce, it’s just that…”

“No, you’re right,” Bruce said, hurt. 

Dick was embarrassed, angry at himself for making Bruce uncomfortable.

“I was only thinking of the mission.” Bruce reached for something under the stacks of maps, brusque. “You will, I think, need to shave your legs.”

“Oh no, Bruce.”

“I’m afraid so,” Bruce nodded. “It’s not that you have much hair there, or anywhere, really—”

He stopped talking because of Dick’s glare. And held up a small box. A small pink box. “I got this for y—” he stopped, corrected himself. “The occasion.”

“Oh B, I don’t want to…”

“It works with the currents here,” Bruce continued, opening the case to display a small, ivory-colored electric razor. The thing was disc-shaped, round except for the one edge where the blades cut across the circle. He lifted it from its box. “It’s fashioned to fit comfortably.” 

Decorated with gold curlicues and a pink jewel in the center, Dick felt his stomach flip. Lady Schick. “Oh, no Bruce.” 

“Mmm.” Bruce flipped the thing over in his hand, tiny in his large palm.

“My legs will be hidden—”

“You need to play the part…”

“Nobody will know if I haven’t shaved my legs, Bruce.”

“You won’t let anyone touch them, then?” Bruce put the thing back in its box, closing it with a loud snap.

“Anyone but you?” 

“Hmph.” Bruce snorted, reaching over to drop the pink case into the pocket of Dick’s robe. Folding his arms, he leaned back on the couch. “Each piece is part of the whole when one is undercover, Dick. You know that.” Adversarial, daring Dick to argue further. “Humor me. Your legs. The fuzz under your arms.”

The song on the radio changed. Johnny Mathis singing some creepy song about love. Dick searched for patience. 

“Maybe you can use it on your face, too. For these daily tonsorial needs you seem to have suddenly begun to develop.

”Bruce!” Dick fought the whine he could hear in his own voice. “I am shaving -…more often.” 

Bruce smiled, a little too bright and condescending. “Daily, weekly, monthly. It’s fine, Dick. You’re a virile young man. But do shave something besides your face before this evening.” Bruce picked up his pen again, began filling an index card with small, meticulous notes.

“Fine,” Dick snapped, whirling out of the room. He didn’t miss the self-satisfied little crinkles that played for a moment around Bruce’s eyes, even though the man didn’t look up from his paperwork.


	8. The Maiden's Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intrigue at The Louvre!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this last night, but my mouse wouldn't work, and it's really hard to post fic with no working mouse! Because I love you, readers, so much, I went to work, slipped out with a mouse, and came home to post. I didn't want to let you down! 
> 
> Now, ha! I have to run back to work.

The Louvre was everything Dick had imagined it would be, only bigger and more imposing: paintings and sculptures and marble and tile and tall ceilings that went on forever. The Venus de Milo; stunning—and nude—odalisque after odalisque; the Mona Lisa; statues by Michelangelo; oils by the great masters. The buzzing drone of hundreds of visitors, speaking any one of a dozen different languages, echoed from every polished, cavernous surface. In corduroy jacket, dress shirt, khakis and tie, a camera slung around his neck, museum brochure in hand, Dave Mathews was every inch the tourist.

Winged Victory greeted him as he rounded the Victory of Samothrace staircase, maintaining a ten to fifteen-yard distance behind the party he shadowed. The group he spied on numbered a dozen, various dignitaries and one or two young people. The group paused, so Dick paused as well.

He lingered near the statue’s placard, registering some of the words as he waited near the headless statue. A docent passed, leading a tour, and the words drifted down toward him. “…the accidental mutilation of this statue turned it into a timeless icon of Western art — “a masterpiece of destiny, according to…” the tour guide’s voice trailed away as the tourists moved onward.

Ahead, Bruce made small talk with the man that had to be Dr. Bernard. Dr. Bernard looked to be in his mid- to late-fifties, just an inch or so shorter than Bruce, so about 6 feet tall, salt and pepper hair, imposing and handsome but for an old, livid scar that ripped down one side of his face, temple to jowl. 

Dick took a few pictures—of art, and when he could, of the suspects, monkeyed with his Nikon, marveled at the Tomb of the Seneschal of Burgundy, watched as Bruce and the Doctor were interrupted when the teenager from the garden party—Lorena—joined them, taking Bruce’s arm, telling him something that made Bruce laugh politely and Dr. Bernard narrow his eyes at the girl, then at Bruce. When the ambassadors moved on to the next gallery, the Doctor took Lorena’s shoulder and steered her away from the rest of the ambassadors, down the dark corridor toward the Richelieu wing.

Dick followed them discretely around a corner, then paused, pretending to read the inscription under a painting of Alexander entering Babylon, eavesdropping. Father and daughter argued, fast and whispered, not in English. In Portuguese. By the time Dick casually drifted close enough to try to decipher the words, Lorena had stormed away. 

The next set of galleries marked the beginning of the ancient antiquities. Dick took in Isis nursing Horus and was mesmerized by the Great Sphinx of Tanis. But the people he followed were less inclined to take in Egyptian dynasties, and impatient to see their own exhibit in its new temporary Parisian home.

The Treasures of the Amazon were indeed a sight to behold. Green—whether sparkling emeralds or idols inlaid with jade—was the overwhelming color of the gallery. Green-eyed jaguars and jade fertility gods, green, gold and ebony monsters and madonnas filled case after case of antiquities. Thrones, golden flutes, pitchers, mosaics made of precious stone blinded the viewer with their splendor. Precious gems, gold and silver adornments, breastplates, masks, figural vessels and weapons filled every display case.

Dick tore his eyes away from a wicked-looking jewel-encrusted ceremonial bloodletting dagger to do a quick inventory of the people in the gallery. Madame DuMarier, Lorena’s mother and Dr. Bernard’s wife, who’d kept her first husband’s last name and significant wealth, was on Bruce’s arm as they entered the room. Bruce was regaling her with a joke about a policeman and an avant-garde art collector. His French was perfect, and even though he purposefully flubbed the final line, her lilting laugh echoed in the large marble room. She was a tall, slender woman in her forties, smartly dressed in Chanel, her dark hair swept into a sophisticated chignon. Dr. Bernard stood a few feet away, near a temple replica, speaking with a curator. Dominic Di Medici, a light-haired Italian baron, inspected an enormous jade casket at Dick’s eleven o’clock. Lorena and her brother—Alessandro DuMarier, Dick remembered, as he remembered the baron, too, from Bruce’s briefing in the taxi from the hotel—a young man in his early twenties, dark and slim and suave, like his mother and sister, whispered with each other near a particularly graphic fertility idol. A couple of bruisers who had to be bodyguards milled about, uninterested in anything except keeping a watchful eye on the few tourists and sightseers that mingled in with the group of diplomats. 

In the center of the room, a large case protected the one artifact that no longer needed protection, the highlight of the exhibit, the antiquity that had already been pilfered and replaced with a well-executed paste replica. Under gleaming glass, shimmering with an unearthly green glow, the necklace sparkled: huge, perfect-looking emeralds chained together with intricate, delicate strands of gold. “The Maiden’s Sacrifice” read the placard on the glass. Dick moved forward to take in more of the text.

In one of the great archeological finds of the twentieth century, Sir Edmond Blakely translated an ancient South American text to discover a mysterious ritual, involving the selection, every seven years, of one perfect girl child. This girl was placed in the royal court, enjoying every luxury available and training in all of the great arts. Seven years later, a great feast was held, lasting for days. At the climax of the festivities, the chosen young woman was anointed with sacred oils, and naked, accompanied only by high priests, she climbed a sacred mountain overlooking a body of water referred to as ‘The Queen’s Bath”. Atop a cliff, the woman was adorned in the finest jewelry, carefully fashioned by the most skillful artisans, over the course of the seven previous years. Necklaces, bracelets, anklets, earrings, rings, belts, golden girdles, stones and chains all draped her nude form, covering and weighting her. She was then ‘given to the gods’, drowned in the deep waters below…

“The locals knew where it was,” a rich Italian voice beside him interrupted Dick’s perusal of the brutal ritual. He turned, annoyed with himself that he’d been so intent on the story that he’d missed Baron Di Medici’s approach. 

“What?”

The baron’s full head of yellow hair swept back from a widow’s peak in the middle of his forehead. The peak, combined with his neatly trimmed Van Dyke, made Dick think of a blond Satan. Though impeccably dressed, from his Italian loafers to his Versace suit, the man had just a slight air of oiliness about him. The baron made a production of flourishing, then donning, a pair of reading glasses and peered closely at the inscription on the case. “The locals knew where it was all along,” he said.

“Where what was?” 

“The Queen’s Bath.” The baron tapped on the case’s placard. “Secret place. They didn’t want to tell Sir Edmund Blakely, but they knew where it was. They’d known for centuries.”

Lorena’s brother rounded the other side of the necklace display. His beautifully-accented Portuguese voice laced with something that might have been sarcasm, Alessandro stated, as though reciting a worn out script. “But he finally found it.”

The baron nodded, winking at Alessandro, and turning a blindingly white smile on Dick. “You know why they didn’t want to tell him?” 

“Sure,” Dick grinned back. “I’ll bite.”

“Well,” the man said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “They were still using it.”

“What?” 

“Yes,” said Alessandro, nodding as he folded his arms, taking in Dick’s reaction to the story

“Yes.” The baron stroked his beard, thoughtful, but Dick had the strong feeling that this was all part of the act, part of a favorite anecdote. “Blakely gets there, and in that water? The ‘Queen’s Bath’?” he continued.

“Uh huh.”

“Piles and piles and piles of jewels,” Baron Di Medici said. 

Alessandro, handsome face filled with awe and dark almond eyes wide, gestured with finger-splayed hands, gracefully sculpting something imaginary and waist-high in front of himself. 

Bruce was watching the three of them now, surreptitiously, from across the room, while Madame DuMarier led him amongst the displays. Bruce raised an eyebrow. Dick nodded, both at Bruce and at the storyteller. 

“And not just piles of jewels,” the Italian said, emphasizing his point with a finger on Dick’s shoulder. “Something else that wouldn’t—I know this because I’m a bit of an armchair archeologist myself,” he said and smiled, self-conscious, perhaps. “Something that wouldn’t still be there, in green jungle waters of the Amazon. Unless it was very recent.” He waited, obviously anxious to deliver his punch line. 

“Okay.”

“Not just jewels.”

“I’m ready,” Dick prodded.

“Bones,” the baron said, his voice low and dramatic. “Piles and piles of human bones.”

“Sacrifício humano,” Alessandro whispered. 

Dick shivered. 

Alessandro raised his eyebrows, twice, in quick succession, then winked at Dick.

The baron grinned, pleased with himself. “American tourist?”

Dick grinned back, shoved his museum brochure into his jacket pocket and stuck out his hand. “Sure am. Dave’s the name.”

“Alessandro DuMarier.” The slim, dark young man with almond eyes clasped Dick’s outstretched hand before the baron could.

“Dominic Di Medici.” The Italian extended his own. “What do you think of the exhibit? I had quite a hand,” he said, snickering at his own pun as he took Dick’s hand in his and shook it, “in the tour.”

“It’s really um…” Dick thought, searching for what Tourist Dave Mathews would say. “Nice. It’s really nice.”

“Honestly, it’s a bit stuffy in here, with all of these dignitaries.” The baron inclined his head toward Bruce and Madame DuMarier, then shrugged. “But what are you going to do?”

Alessandro snorted, derisive. 

“Alessandro’s father’s bodyguards…” Baron Di Medici looked around the room for the bruisers, sighing. “Keep a tight rein on things.”

Alessandro nodded in agreement. “They are too…” He made a waving, dismissive motion in the air with his hands, then shrugged. “I want to lose them.” 

Dick shrugged back in vague commiseration. He didn’t know quite what to say now, so he reached for his camera. Better play the part, and might as well get a picture of the necklace anyway. Could come in handy later, even if it was just for his scrapbook. 

“Oh, no!” Dominic scolded, his hand pushing at Dick’s Nikon. “No pictures in this gallery.”

“Oh. I thought…” 

The baron smiled, just a small quirk of his mouth. Followed by a self-important, “But I can take you to an area of the museum where you can see some of these treasures. Some are…” he raised an arm toward nothing in particular. “Some are in storage. I could take you to see them.” He looked over at Alessandro. “We could.”

Alessandro raised an eyebrow, tapping his foot restlessly. Across the room, Bruce was almost mirroring Alessandro’s impatience, though Dick knew it was as much curiosity as restlessness, and it wasn’t directed at Lorena, who was dragging him toward the bust of a River God. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick watched as Bruce shifted direction, made a point of disentangling himself from Lorena’s arm and wandering nearer.

“Gosh, really?” That didn’t sound terribly promising, but any time with one of the suspects would probably pay off. The best detective listens, always. And if there was one thing Gotham’s master criminals had taught him: criminals might be cowardly and superstitious, but they did love to talk.

“Now?” the man asked. 

“Dominic!” Bruce strode close. He made a show of tilting his head and admiring the necklace, whistling softly with appreciation. “Nice exhibit, eh?”

The baron laughed, a short bark. “Mr. Wayne, I would think you’d be as tired of it as say…” he looked around the room. “As Mademoiselle Lorena is, by this point.”

“Come, Baron Di Medici. Surely it’s Bruce by now?” He clapped the blond man on the back. Dick could smell Eau Savauge cologne waft toward his nose.

“Alessandro,” Bruce nodded. 

“Bruce.”

“Chatting up the tourists, then?” Bruce inclined his head toward Dick, playboy tycoon act fully in place. 

“Some of us,” Dominic said, his tone reproachful, “have not been with the exhibit for as long as you have.” The baron widened his eyes, dramatic. “We are still enjoying the thrill of sharing the exhibit with the public.”

“Dominic, I’m surprised at you,” Bruce laughed. “I know these are emeralds, but we’re not all so—jaded—as you imagine, you know.” 

Alessandro made a noise between a sigh and a snort.

“Was that a joke, Bruce?” The baron took off his glasses and tapped Bruce’s lapel with them. “That’s hardly even up to your standards, is it?”

“One does try,” Bruce said dryly. 

Dick smiled, in what he hoped was his best ‘Gosh! American Tourist’ grin and polished his camera lens.

“Oh, Bruce!” Madame DuMarier called from across the room. Her high heels made little clipping sounds on the tile as she trotted toward him. “Senhora Fortunato has arrived.” 

“Ah, Genoveva,” Bruce said, smiling blandly. “By all means, we must pay our respects to one of the exhibit’s main donors.”

“But of course,” she said, taking his arm, leading him away. 

“So, Dave, isn’t it?” the baron asked when Bruce was gone, his voice low. 

Dick nodded.

“Would you like to explore things a bit? Go behind the scenes at the Louvre?”

“Now?” 

Alessandro leaned in, nodding as he lifted Dick’s camera, turning it in his hand. “Nikonos Rangefinder,” he said. “Nice.”

“No time like the present, is there?” The baron said, and the look on the Italian’s face made Dick think of Satan now more than ever. He checked his watch. “Soon, I have obligations. But now? I can make the time.”

“We can make the time,” Alessandro agreed, his voice melodic.

Was the baron talking about the Red meeting? That was certainly possible. Dick felt his heart beat faster. Maybe he could get this guy to talk. “Say, the thing you’ve got later isn’t a meeting, is it?”

“It could be …” 

Dick watched the man stroke his goatee. Was he getting nervous? “A special meeting?”

The man frowned.

Dick wished he knew whatever password these Reds must use. What secret code might work, because he didn’t want to queer the deal. “Because word on the street is,” he said, trying for worldly, “is that some of you guys have certain,” he searched for the right way to phrase things. “Certain special interests, and I’d like…” He trailed off, waiting to see if his mark took the bait. 

“You’d like?” Alessandro dropped the camera, still slung around Dick’s neck; let it fall against Dick’s chest with a little ‘thunk’. He tilted his head, smoky eyes boring into Dick’s own.

“I’d like,” Dick said, making it up as he went. “I’d like to… be in on that.”

For a long moment no one said anything. The baron stroked his beard thoughtfully. Then his tongue darted out to wet his upper lip and he reached toward Dick, and to Dick’s surprise, whipped the museum brochure from his brown corduroy jacket’s pocket. The man turned to a page with a map of the Louvre. Brandishing a pen, he put an ‘x’ on the map. Then he said, his voice a whisper, “Three floors below this mark, there is a room labeled ‘antiquities storage 7b’. We’ll meet there, si? Ten minutes?” 

“Okay,” Dick said. 

Sneaking a glance at the Doctor’s bodyguard, one flanking each side of the entrance, Di Medici added, handing Dick the map. “Do not both leave at the same time.”

Dick nodded, curtly. All business.

The man rubbed his hands together. “I want to show you something special, young Dave. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.” 

Alessandro quirked an eyebrow, then languidly wandered over to peruse a golden snake coiling around a jade jaguar. Four minutes later, he too had disappeared.

Memorizing the map, keeping track of the time, Dick wandered between the displays and treasures, until he ended up near Bruce, who was speaking in Portuguese with a newcomer, a well-dressed dowager. A bored-looking Lorena waited at his side.

Dick made a small note on his brochure, near Dominic’s ‘x’, then nonchalantly tapped the paper in his hand.

“Mademoiselle Lorena,” he heard Bruce begin. “We do want Senhora Fortunato to enjoy her visit to the Louvre. Let’s just take a look at what else this French national treasure has to offer.” He smiled his most charming smile as he pulled his own brochure from his interior jacket pocket and unfolded it, studying. Lorena helpfully held up one side of the paper, brushing Bruce’s hand, then lingering as they opened the brochure’s map together.

Dick stepped closer, seemingly aimless, his own brochure in one hand, other busied with adjusting the lens of his camera.

“Senhora Fortunato, I think you should definitely take in the Etruscan exhibits, “ Bruce said. “Don’t you think so, darling?” At Lorena’s blush and the older woman’s simper, Bruce took the paper, began folding it. 

On cue, looking the other way, Dick stepped forward, absent-mindedly bumping into Bruce. 

Bruce let the brochure slip from his fingers. “Oh, how clumsy of me.” He slowly stooped, pretended to get a pain in his knee and rubbed it, smiling ingratiatingly up at Lorena and the Senhora. 

Dave the helpful tourist swept down to the floor first, retrieving, then switching his annotated brochure for Bruce’s. He held it up with a flourish. “Here you go, mister!”

“Thank you, young man,” Bruce answered, giving Dick one split second of eye to eye contact before saying to Lorena, under his breath. “Turista Americano.” 

Lorena giggled. “Que pode você fazer?” 

“Indeed. What can you do?” Bruce rolled his eyes, shrugged. Then Bruce stood and tapped Lorena's arm with the brochure, winking as he slid it into his own pocket. “So gauche.”

Dick polished the lens of his Rangefinder harder and wandered toward the gallery exit, trying to look much more casual than he felt. He’d just gotten an invite from a possible suspect, one who might tell him about the Red powwow. All he had to do was play his cards right. Bruce was going to be so impressed!


	9. The plot thickens.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's beneath the Louvre? Robin is on a mission to find out!

Chapter 9

It was warm in the ‘museum staff only’ stairwell, dim, deserted and stuffy with the smell of chemicals and dust. Dick found Alessandro one floor down, casually slouched against a concrete wall, hands in his pockets, smoking a cigarette like a delinquent. 

“Hi,” Dick said, surprised to see him there, instead of the storage room with the “x.”

“Olá,” Alessandro said without lifting his head from the wall behind him, watching Dick with his enormous, dark eyes. 

“You waited for me?” 

Alessandro shrugged, a lazy smile forming around the Gitane cigarette in his mouth. “Maybe.” He exhaled slowly, blowing a stream of gray smoke past Dick’s face. "Did you want me to?”

“Sure,” Dave the tourist answered, confused. “Unless, you know,” he added, “unless we’re missing the meeting.”

Alessandro raised a languid, long-boned hand to flick his cigarette to the cement floor, crushing it with an expensive black leather Beatle boot. “You weren’t followed, were you?”

“No.”

“Come with me, then.” Alessandro led him further, deep into the bowels of the museum. Along dark corridors, between shipping crates and service lifts, stacks of boxes and broken display cabinets, glancing back now to make sure they were indeed still alone.

Finally he stopped in front of a nondescript door. Alessandro tried the knob, then cocked his head for Dick to follow him inside. It was a tight, cluttered storage area. “This isn’t Antiquities Storage 7B,” Dick said.

“I have something else to show you.” Alessandro pulled the door closed behind them with a thump. Inside, Egyptian antiquities spilled from half-emptied crates. Wooden sarcophagi, funeral furniture, alabaster unguent jars, a broken, gilt-covered statue. The entire space was dark, too warm and thick with packing materials and dust. Dick started to ask why this room mattered, but then the packing materials and dust got the better of him and he coughed. 

“Alright?” Alessandro patted him on the back. And then suddenly he wasn’t patting him, but he was holding Dick’s shoulders, soft lips on his and then he was trying to lick his way in and when Dick opened his mouth to protest, Alessandro was trying cram his tongue down Dick’s throat. He tasted like cigarettes.

Dick heard himself make a little yelping noise from somewhere deep in his chest. He whipped his neck to the side and Alessandro kissed the hollow of his throat. “Hey!” Dick said, prying the guy’s hands off, holding them away from him. 

Alessandro panted, dark almond eyes stricken. “I thought…”

“Well, you thought wrong, mister.” Dick shook his head, appalled. “You just do that all the time? Bring guys down here and try to—”

Alessandro stared at him, focused on the area between his nose and upper lip. 

Uh-oh. Dick reached up to feel his appliance. Sure enough, his mustache had become halfway dislodged, loose at the corner. Guess it wasn’t good for kissing. 

“Who are you?” Alessandro asked, blinking at him. “Why do you have that—”

Dick opened his mouth to say something, anything, when from the corridor outside the room came the sound of footsteps. Alessandro started at the noise. He locked the door they’d come in and then was up very close again. He put a finger to Dick’s lips, shaking his head. “My stepfather will kill me,” he whispered. “Shh.” The steps grew closer. Eyes wild, he surveyed the room for an alternate exit. On the far wall was another door. “I’m sorry,” he said into Dick’s ear, pressing against him, whole body, placing a small kiss to the side of his jaw before Dick could react. Then he bolted through the door, gone.

Gathering his wits, panting a little himself, Dick ducked into the dimmest corner of the storage room, behind a large, upended sarcophagus. Worst came to worst, he could push it over to surprise whoever it was and make it to the other door. In case it was Dominic, he waited in the dimly lit room to see what the footsteps would do, and listened, ready to bolt. The footsteps came closer and closer, slowly, echoing on the hard, concrete floor. Not the steps of a casual museum employee, or even a guard, unless he missed his guess. The steps stopped outside the door of the room. Dick held his breath as someone stood a few feet away from him, he and the unknown intruder each only separated by a few feet and a closed door. And a very heavy sarcophagus. Then, miraculously, the steps began again, and whomever it was continued walking slowly down the hall. 

Digging the flashlight from his carefully concealed, pared-down utility belt, Dick consulted the map he’d taken from Bruce. There were no markings on this one, but he knew where Dominic’s ‘x’ had been. This room wasn’t it. Perhaps the meeting was taking place, there, at this very minute. Maybe Alessandro had been a diversion, to keep him from the meeting. Good thing he’d kept his wits about him.

There, in the darkness, he stripped to his Robin costume. He stowed his corduroy jacket, khakis, and the rest of his kit at the bottom of a dusty crate, covering it with excelsior. Domino mask in place, he weighed his options. Which door? Either way could theoretically get him to the room Dominic had marked, Antiquities Storage Room 7B. He could risk the unknown shadower in the hallway or running into Alessandro again, but this time, as Robin. He opened the door Alessandro had disappeared through.

The museum’s multiple basements were labyrinthine, but he was Robin, and it was nothing compared to plenty of other places and puzzles he’d faced. He was zeroing in on his target location, approximately twenty yards away, when he caught sight of movement in his peripheral vision. He slunk into the shadows, plastering himself to the corridor wall, but nothing else happened. He calculated the passage of four minutes. Nothing. He sighed, softly. Maybe he was just getting jittery. 

Robin edged closer to his final destination. He crept in front of Storage Room 7B. His gloved hand was on the door when he caught the sound of movement behind him. He turned, ready to fight. But before he knew what he was even fighting, something struck the back of his head and he crumpled. Robin fell to the concrete floor as the world around him went black.


	10. Something Big's Going Down.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being Shanghai'd at the Louvre, Robin comes to in disused office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter posted early-that's three chapters this week-due to my soul-crushing need for validation. But more about that later! 
> 
> Oh, and I imagine everyone knows this, but Matches Malone is a canonical disguise donned, from time to time, by Bruce Wayne. He's a two-bit hood and conman, a shady hustler always angling to make a buck any way he can.

Dick came to lying on his side, his cheek pressed to a dirty wooden floor. Pain flared up from the back of his neck, taking over his entire skull. He swam up from blackness and the first thing he noticed, after the pain, after the fact that he couldn’t move, more than struggle against whatever was holding him—were the voices. Not here, not in the room, but somewhere close by. He opened an eye and took stock, assessing, already working against the ropes that bound his hands and ankles. 

He was alone, in some kind of shabby office. Near the door, not that he could get there yet, he realized, raising his head and fighting back the waves of hurt that accompanied the movement. Dick closed his eyes, blinked, waited for the room to righten again. It must be an unused office. Behind him, a battered metal desk, a dented file cabinet. In front of him, a few scattered chairs, a small window. Sun streaming in the grimy glass indicated that he hadn’t been out for very long. He let his head drop back to the floor with a little thud that hurt as much as sitting up had and closed his eyes again, tensing and releasing the muscles of his lower arms and wrists, flexing and pulling at the ropes that bound him.

The voices in the other room muttered louder, shouted something in unison. A slogan, but he couldn’t quite make out the words. Another language. If he could hear it better, he could identify it, but not at this volume.

Whoever had tied him up knew what they were doing. Perfect, tightly tied knots. ‘Probably a sailor’ flitted randomly through his mind as he rubbed his wrists together, up and down. The rope burned against his skin, even through his gloves, but he gained a quarter inch of movement, then a tiny fraction more. If only he’d been conscious when they clobbered him. He could have tensed his muscles before they’d gotten these ropes so tight—heck, if only he’d have given whoever whacked him on the head a little run for his money. 

From the next room came the sounds of scraping chairs and movement. Dick worked his wrists harder. 

Footsteps came close and someone spoke just outside the door, a deep and guttural German accent. “Perhaps,” the man said, “perhaps I have two things to offer your client.” 

“Well, pally. We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?” 

Dick smiled. This voice had an accent, too. A Gotham accent. 

The door rattled and through almost closed eyes, Dick watched two men enter the room. Dr. Bernard and a tall, broad-shouldered guy, ill-dressed, clad in orange plaid polyester— sports coat and slacks, wearing gold aviator sunglasses and with a small piece of wood stuck in the corner of his mouth. 

Dick played dead, faking unconsciousness but watching, at least as much as he could see, eyes just barely parted. In the next room, the meeting droned on, people shouting in unison, then one voice rising and falling. A speech.

The two men stood over him. “Yep.” Matches clicked his tongue appreciatively, nudging Dick in the arm with the toe of his Florsheim. “Looks like you really put one over on the kid, here.”

“He was snooping around.”

“You know—” Matches scratched his head thoughtfully. “You know this kid doesn’t work alone, right?”

“Dominic certainly does. Now. He was suitably chastened for this… breach of protocol.” 

Matches grinned, slow and sly around the match in his teeth. “I’m surprised Dominic’s not swimming in the Seine, then. Batman’s a tough customer.” 

“I’m aware of the Gotham mythos, yes.” The doctor pulled out a silver cigarette case, clicked it open, offered one to Matches.

Malone waved it away. “You’re gonna be more aware when the Batman finds out what you did to his boy, I figure.” 

“Batman is the only reason we haven’t lifted the boy’s mask. Not yet, anyway.”

“The big lunk’d hit you, hard. Guess you are worried about him.” Robin could hear Matches grinning around the match in his teeth.

“I believe you may underestimate my operation. As you can see, I’m serious.” He swept a hand toward Robin, then extracted a slim black cigarette from his case. 

“Serious about this, maybe. Can’t tell yet about the other.”

“I never bluff, Mr. Malone.” The doctor lit his cigarette. “What about you? Do you really have an interested buyer for me?”

Malone crossed his arms, puffing up a little in stance. “What do you mean, buddy? Told you I did.” 

“Your antiquities enthusiast is a member of the exhibit’s ambassadors?” Dr. Bernard leaned back on the edge of the desk, out of Robin’s line of sight. “Mr. Wayne?”

“Yeah.” Matches slumped down in the wooden chair closest to Robin.

“Why hasn’t he approached me directly?”

“Because he wants an errand boy, that’s why. The guy may be an idiot, but he’s smart enough to know he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty. That’s why he sent for me.” 

“Would your client also be interested in something else from Gotham? Already tied and gift wrapped?” 

“Him?” Matches stuck out his foot, nudging Robin’s arm with it, then leaned back in his chair again. “Oh, he’s got an interest, but it ain’t in Gotham’s littlest hero, here.”

“My contacts in Gotham tell me differently.”

“Just what kind of interest are we talkin’ about?”

“I hear he… may have certain proclivities.”

“Yeah?” Matches’ eyes narrowed. “What ya hinting at, Doc?”

“My sources say the man devotes an inordinate amount of attention to charity cases. Certain kinds.” The doctor exhaled a stream of smoke. 

“Maybe he’s just a real humanitarian." With sarcasm in his voice he added, "Herr Doctor.” Malone crossed his broad arms over his chest. 

“Of a particular sort. Took in a youngster.” The doctor drummed his fingers on the desk. “Does a disproportionate amount of work with juvenile delinquents, young men in trouble.”

“I heard Wayne likes ‘em young, but sticks with the ladies, if you get my drift.” Matches cracked his knuckles, then splayed his fingers wide. “But you’re gonna have to ask Wayne, not me.” He pulled his sport coat sleeve up to better view a huge gold wristwatch. “I ain’t that kind of middleman. And you better hope you don’t get company between now and then—”

“If Wayne’s not interested, we’re going to—” Robin could hear the man behind him take another long drag off of his cigarette, “dispose of the boy.”

“Well, well.” Matches tipped the chair he was sitting in back, against the wall. “You better hurry, bub. I sure don’t want to be here when the Batman comes lookin’.” He clapped big hands on the plaid polyester of his thighs. 

“I’m not particularly pleased that one of my men… burdened the operation with the young man here, but it’s really too late to do anything about it.” Robin could hear a tiny note of something— worry? Indecision? Creeping into the man’s voice. 

“Can the small talk, Doc. I’m here because word on the street is—and I got a lady thief workin’ for me in Gotham who put me wise—word on the street is that you got some real goods you’re lookin’ to move. Fast. For big money.”

“And what if that’s true? Would your client be interested in something to… sweeten the deal? If he's such a humanitarian, would he pay for his fellow Gothamite, too?”

“Look, Wayne’s a chump, but he’s all about the showy stuff.”

“Hmm.” The man shifted in his chair.

“Yeah,” Matches clapped his hands, rubbed them together. “Can’t help you with the kid, here. Not that kind of broker, friend. And I don’t want to be here when big daddy shows up.” He shifted his bulk in the chair. “I’m talking something a little smaller. Shiny. Green. Ring a bell?”

“The Maiden’s Sacrifice.”

“Yeah, that’s what I think they’re callin’ it.”

“What makes you think I have…”

“Look, my lady friend? She put me wise. What’s in this…” Malone waved a hand vaguely, “exhibit of yours ain’t the real thing. But you got the real thing, and I got a buyer for you. Give Wayne the chance to put in some dibs on the sale.” 

“Why doesn’t he approach me himself?”

“’Cause he don’t know who’s runnin’ the racket, is why. Only me, and my lady friend, figured it out. I find you a buyer, I get a piece of the action.”

“What does he want with the necklace?”

“What do I look like? His best friend?”

The doctor didn’t respond. Dick could hear him drumming his fingers on the metal desk.

Matches tried again. “Look, he’s a collector. You’d be surprised. Not of what you’re trying to get at, though. No way. And even if he wanted to?” Matches rubbed the back of his neck, worked a kink out of his shoulders. “Even if he wanted to, I’m not up for it. There’s no way, no how I’m getting on the bad side of this kid’s boss. Although,” he said, standing. “I do have a bone to pick with this kid,” he said, prodding Robin with his foot again, for emphasis. But this time, right near Dick’s bound hands. And there was the almost imperceptible difference to the sound of his foot on the floor. A metallic scrape as his cheap imitation leather shoe’s toe slid toward Dick. And when the shoe moved away this time, it left behind a three-inch blade. “I’ve had a run-in or two with this kid myself. Broke up a really good thing I had going a while back. Maybe I should get a little payback.” Malone’s foot swung back, pulling a kick to Robin’s gut. Dick doubled on himself, feigned the appropriate response for an incapacitated man with a kick to his stomach, then palmed the blade and went to work on the ropes. 

“He’s not coming to yet, is he?”

“How should I know? You’re the doctor.”

“My bag’s in the next room. I could shoot him up a little—”

“Nah. Looks pretty KO’d to me.” Malone sat back in his chair, threw one of his big, garishly clad legs over the other and tipped the chair back on two legs. “Plus, we ain’t done with our business, yet.” He reached for the red-tipped match between his teeth, switched it to the other side of his mouth. “I think I want to get out of here. Don’t need any guilt by association, pal. You want to push your own luck? Your funeral. I don’t need the headache.”

“I don’t suppose you youself could be bothered to –”

“Think I’m dumb enough to take get involved with your mistake? I don’t think so, mister. You got goons, from what I can tell. I don’t get my pretty hands,” he waved a big knuckled, gold ring covered hand at the doctor, “dirty.”

Robin sawed all the way through the first rope binding his wrists. Signaled Bruce. 

The man at the desk lit another smoke. In the other room, voices were rising and falling in song. An anthem of some sort. 

Matches shifted in his chair, leaning forward and banging a fist on his thigh. “Can we get down to business, here? My client wants the necklace.”

“Why?”

“Why don’t you ask him, Doc? All I want is my cut.” Matches raised his big orange coated arms and folded them behind his head. “Don’t sweat it, pally. Like I said, he likes to think he’s a big shot or somethin’. Maybe he wants to give it back to a museum or whatnot. Maybe he wants to hide it in a safe deposit box for hard times. Maybe he wants some fancy green rocks to impress a dame. I don’t know. You ain’t gonna be riskin’ your own hide, anyway, once you let ‘em go. Let me and him handle the action. Get rid of the hot rocks.”

Robin had his wrists free now, but he kept the rope draped as it had been. Didn’t want to show his hand before the right moment. His head was still killing him, he realized, when the sound of a knock on the door sounded like a claxon. He froze, played his part.

Dominic Di Medici poked his head in the office. His face was swollen, he had one black eye, and a bandage across his nose. He looked shaken up, nervous. Without making eye contact with anyone, he addressed the man behind the desk. “Meeting’s almost over, Dr. Bernard. They want you to do the final words.” 

Matches whistled. “You sure did a number on him.”

“He needed… correction for the problem he caused.”

“The one lyin’ on the floor?” Matches snorted a laugh. “Pretty big problem.”

“Very well Dominic,” the doctor said, and Robin heard the man’s chair scrape as he stood, and Matches did too, slowly uncurling his bulk. 

“I’ll contact your client, Mr. Malone.”

“Real good, doctor. Pleasure doin’ business wit’ cha.” 

They shook hands and Robin watched shoes move past his mostly closed eyes. “I think you can see yourself out, then.” The door closed and Dick was alone. 

Dick sat up, ignoring the pain in his skull, and the way the room spun.

In a moment, the doctor’s voice sounded from the next room. 

He tried untying the ropes around his ankle, first, but it was slow going. The meeting was winding up, he could tell. Shouted slogans again, followed by a murmur and the scraping of chairs. 

He wedged the blade between his bound ankles and worked as fast as he could, cutting through the ropes, accidentally slicing his calf. It started to bleed, pooling out on the floor. Not too bad of a cut, but… 

Footsteps in the hall. He tossed the last of the ropes from his ankles, stood on shaky legs. 

The office window was fairly small, and not too easy to open, but he did it. Luckily, the leap was only one floor down and he landed in an azalea hedge. 

Matches was waiting for him around the corner. Slouching, hands in his pockets, staring down at the sidewalk. 

“Hey, a fellow Gotham citizen!” Matches grinned around the match in his teeth. “Good to see ya, Robin.” He took off his plaid sports coat and wrapped it around Dick’s shoulders. “Need to put some clothes on, kid. Thought you only came out at night!” He clapped Dick on the back, leaning close to whisper. “You okay, Robin?” His eyes widened at the bleeding cut on Robin’s leg. 

Dick nodded, managing a smile. “Yeah. Got a headache.”

“Bet you do.” Bruce dug in his pocket for a handkerchief. “You need a tourniquet? Any other injuries? How deep’s the cut on your leg?” 

Dick shrugged. “Not too bad. Just bleeding a lot.” 

Bruce handed him the square of cloth. “Tie it around your leg for the moment, please.” He waved down a passing taxi. “Let’s get back to the hotel. Put some ice on that head. We need to check you for injuries and you need to give me a debriefing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I'm on tumblr. When I went to work to borrow a mouse so that I could sneak home from work in the middle of the morning and post the second before last chapter, meeting my own personal deadline, before I decided that was the way to go, I thought: You know? If I can't post to AO3, I could put something on my tumblr, then maybe people would see it and understand what's up. So if you ever wanted to check it out or even, I suppose, follow it, although I don't post much or often, it's agentava (agent ava). I will follow you back.


	11. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick needs attention.

The trip back to the Ritz was a bit of a blur for Dick. Lots of questions in the cab, stupid kinds of questions, like who won last year’s World Series, and who’s the president? Then harder ones like the atomic number Bismuth, whose face is on the $10,000 bill, how do you prove the Pythagorean Theorem. Bruce checked out his eyes, made him follow his finger, counted his pulse. Smuggled them both into a staff elevator, got them up to their room, helped Dick lie down on top of the covers of his bed. They hadn’t turned off the radio before they left for the museum, and now Marie Laforêt was singing “Mon Amour, Mon Ami.”

Bruce paced as far as the phone cord would allow as he called the concierge and ordered ice, then gathered towels and his first aid kit.

“Are you nauseous?” he asked, looming over the bed until he got a negative answer. “Let me see the back of your head.” 

Dick propped himself up on his elbows and let himself be examined. Bruce prodded, felt.

“Ouch!”

Bruce whistled appreciatively. “You’ve got a nice little goose egg. You’re sure you’re not nauseous?” he said, supporting the back of Dick’s head. 

“Yeah, Bruce. I’m sure. I’m actually kind of hungry, come to think of it.”

“Only you could be hungry at a time like this.” Bruce ignored his "yeah" as he smiled a very small smile and felt Dick’s forehead, first with the back of his hand, then used his splayed fingers to push back Dick’s hair, carding through it once, carefully pulling away when he reached the swollen lump at the base of his skull. “No fever.” He shook his head. “Dick, why couldn’t you be more careful?” 

Dick shrugged, embarrassed. “I don’t know, Bruce. I’m sorry.” 

“Your leg’s still bleeding. Let’s get it elevated. After a bit we can order room service for you, but right now I want you to stay where you are.” He went to his own room and came back with pillows. 

Dick lay back and let Bruce take off his shoes, put his leg up on two pillows.

A knock on the door indicated the ice had arrived. Bruce brought it into the bedroom, twirled two handfuls in a small towel. “Lift up.”

Dick complied. The ice helped. Bruce sat beside him, hideous orange pants, and crossed his legs, perched precariously on the edge of the bed. Then he suddenly stood again, and Dick heard him running water in the bathroom. He came back with aspirin, held the glass. “Can you sit up and take these?” Bruce moved to wrap his arms around Dick’s shoulders, help support him.

“Bruce, I can drink water by myself.” 

Bruce tapped his foot, waiting, while Dick swallowed. “How are your wrists? You didn’t cut yourself there too, did you?” As soon as Dick put the glass on the nightstand, Bruce reached for his gloves, pulling off one, then the other, tossing them next to Dick on the bed, inspecting his wrists. He dropped them, then looked down at Dick, tilting his head.

“Your face is filthy.”

“What do you know, Bruce?” Dick rolled his eyes. “I got knocked out in a basement and spent some time lying on a dirty floor in somebody’s back office.”

“It was a front office.” Bruce said from the bathroom, running water. This time he returned with a stack of wet washcloths. He sat down on the edge of the bed and carefully peeled back Robin’s mask. 

The warm cloth felt good on his skin. Bruce used another one on Dick’s arms, paying special care when he got to Dick’s right wrist, which had gotten the worst of the rope burn. “We’ll put some ointment on that in a moment.” He squeezed Dick’s hand. “I want to take a look at the cut on your leg now, okay?”

Dick nodded.

“Self-inflicted?” Bruce asked, moving to the end of the bed.

“Yeah. I just got in too much of a hurry and—”

“Shh, Dick. It’s okay.” Bruce patted his knee reassuringly. “We’ll just see what we’ve got.” Carefully, Bruce untied the makeshift tourniquet he’d insisted on retying for Dick in the taxi. “It’s stopped bleeding so profusely, at least.” He removed the bloody handkerchief. “Hmm.” He stood, taking the bowl of ice with him. Dick heard the clatter of ice poured into the bathroom sink, then more running water. “I’m going to need to flood the cut a little.” Lifting Dick’s foot, he piled more towels under it, atop the pillows, and poured warm water over the wound. 

Dick grimaced at the sting.

Bruce sighed in sympathy. “You’re going to need stitches.”

Dick tried to sit up to see the damage, but Bruce stopped him with a firm hand, pushing him back down.

“Lie down, Dick.”

“I just want to see how bad it is.”

“Not too.” Bruce reached for his first-aid kit, and Dick took the opportunity to sit up. His head reminded him that wasn’t a good idea, as did Bruce, urging him back down. So instead, he propped himself up on his elbows. The cut was about two inches long, and deep. 

Iodine bottle in hand, Bruce made a disapproving clucking sound with his tongue.

“What?” Dick said.

“Oh, nothing.” Bruce had smile crinkles around his eyes. “It’s just that I’ve never seen this.”

“Huh?”

“This kind of desperation. It’s pretty creative to slice your leg just to get out of shaving them, Dick.”

“Very funny, Bruce.”

Serious again, Bruce looked up at him from the foot of the bed. “This is going to smart a little. And if you insist on sitting up on your elbows, put another pillow behind your head. You need to keep the ice against the swelling for at least another twenty minutes.”

Dick reached over and grabbed the other pillow from under the covers, fluffed it and complied. On the radio, Laforêt ended her song and was followed by Sylvie Vartan singing “Baby C’est Vous.”

Bruce swiped on numbing agent and sterilized a needle. Dick watched him, staring at the garish orange and green paisley pattern of Matches’ tie, so incongruous—the look of concentration in Bruce’s dark blue eyes, the resolute set of his mouth when he was dressed in that—“Bruce, how could you let him talk about you like that?”

“Hmm?”

“Dr. Bernard.”

Bruce frowned, threaded the needle. “We all have to make sacrifices for the mission.” Briefly, his eyes flicked up to Dick’s. “Was any of it something you had not heard before?”

“No, Bruce. I just—” Dick stumbled with his words, tried to find a way to explain. “I don’t like to hear people talk like that about you. You know it’s not true. Why don’t you—”

“Do what?” Bruce didn’t look up, but there was a bemused quirk to his lips.

Dick tried to think of a good answer to that. Take out ads in the newspaper? Have Matches testify to the good character of a society man? Stop helping people? Not have given a young man a home at the worst moment of his life?” 

“Augh! I don’t know.”

Bruce was watching him figure it out. Smiling, but a little sad, too. “Besides, I need Bernard to—I am in a psychological game with the Doctor. First pierce. This will hurt”

“Ow! You’re right, it does,” Dick said, as he flinched. “And what do you mean?”

“I mean I offered, hopefully, a shred of doubt that will, along with the behavior Bruce Wayne has been encouraging since arriving here, work in our favor.”

“Bruce, speak English.”

“Pardon me?” Bruce pulled tight, tied off the first stitch.

“Alright ouch, again.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You were saying.”

Bruce sighed, cut the thread. “There are… certain distasteful proclivities that I would have preferred to shelter you from…”

Dick’s heart dropped. He felt… sick. “Bruce, I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Bruce’s needle stopped, frozen in mid-air. “Oh,” he said, realization dawning. He lowered his eyes, frowned, lips pressed tightly together. Then he sighed, needle piercing Dick’s flesh once more. 

It stung.

“I wasn’t referring to anything to do with myself, Dick.” 

Dick could see how much these words were costing Bruce. He didn’t want to be having this conversation.

“But I am,” Bruce said, a sad smile in place. “Only a man.”

“Bruce, please. I don’t feel so good, you know?”

“What is it?” Bruce looked up at him, worried.

“I—I don’t think I can talk about this.” Dick couldn’t look him in the eye.

“Then we won’t. But I am truly sorry and …”

Dick didn’t say anything. The needle continued in and out. Pulling, tightening, tying. 

Bruce snipped the thread again. “Dick, I have tried in every way to protect you from harm. From tainting you in any way, through negligence or by…”

“Bruce—” Dick whispered, “please.”

Bruce held up his hand in the stand down motion. “I have always tried to keep you from seeing the worst of me. That last night in Gotham, I did not succeed.” 

Dick closed his eyes. The look on Bruce’s face—was something that never, ever belonged there. Shame, and it broke Dick’s heart. He didn’t know what to say. He waited, helpless.

“Last stitch.” Bruce took a deep breath. Tied off the thread. “Wasn’t too bad, was it?”

Dick shook his head.

“Dick,” Bruce said, patting his knee. “What I was going to tell you concerns this particular case and is some rather,” he searched for the word he wished to use. “Unsavory behavior.”

Dick let go of a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding, so glad they were back to something… real. Something he could work on, fix. 

Bruce began to pack up the first aid kit. “What I was going to tell you about, is—well, it’s quite sordid. It seems that Dr. Bernard has … an attraction to his step-daughter.”

“Lorena?” Dick sat up higher on his elbows. “But she’s just my age. And she’s his own… Gosh, Bruce. What a creepy family, huh?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, smiled blandly. “Allessandro’s not so bad.” He started stacking wet towels for removal, then turned, on his way to the bathroom. “Dominic is a terrible person, however.” His tone was sharp. “What could you have been thinking, Dick—going somewhere with an oily stranger like that?”

Dick felt his face flush. He couldn’t believe he’d fallen for it, either. Dominic probably wanted the same thing Alessandro had wanted. And he’d played right along. He thought back to what he’d told them. No wonder Alessandro had thought…

Bruce’s tapping foot brought him back. 

“Yeah. I thought they were Reds.”

“Well, they may be, at that.” Bruce took away the bowl of water. Calling from the bathroom, he said, “With a little encouragement, Dominic shared where the doctor would next be, and, as you know, it was at the meeting. As a bonus, you were there as well.”

“Wait, Dr. Bernard didn’t have Dominic beaten, did he?”

Bruce shook his head. The man was bluffing. Took credit for my handiwork.”

“You beat the heck out of the baron, Bruce.”

“Of course I did.” Bruce reached down under his head, took away the melted ice pack, fluffed his pillows. Put a dry towel on top so he wouldn’t have to lie on a wet spot. “Found him in a dark hallway. He never knew who or what hit him.” Bruce looked Dick up and down, wary. “You’re not hurt anywhere else, are you?”

“No,” Dick said. I just wish I hadn’t let the guy get the jump on me. Darn it, Bruce!”

Bruce’s large hand encircled his wrist, soothing antibiotic ointment on his rope burns. “We all make mistakes, Dick,” he said quietly.


	12. Yvette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick gets to enjoy the local views.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested music, if you are so inclined:  
> [Francoise Hardy - Comment Te Dire Adieu](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwhX5V1Gn6w)
> 
> [France Gall - Laisse Tomber Les Filles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FWRCJhsz5t4)
> 
> [Francoise Hardy - Tous Les Garcons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_V-b8QIYOpM)
> 
> [Géraldine Gaulier - Jour à Jour](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tEvuteP1E14&list=PL88BB71CD58FF0F30)
> 
> [Les Surfs - Ce Garçon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3xuHKYSisvw)
> 
> [Sylvie Vartan - Locomotion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fD2I2Rmgs7g&list=PLE7796C4008C3EB2F)

You’re not supposed to sleep when you have a concussion, but Dick did doze a little. After a change into civvies and an early lunch of room-service sandwiches (French dip and French fries), Bruce brought his schoolbooks in and stacked them on the bed. He read for a while, and the next thing he knew, Bruce was gently shaking him awake. “I notice you have trouble getting through Homer,” he said, hand on his shoulder.  

Dick yawned. “Sorry.” Covered his mouth. “It’s kind of a snoozer, Bruce.” He blinked, sitting up. “Hey, you usually don’t let me go to sleep after a head injury.”  

Bruce stood, folding his arms. He’d changed from the horrible plaid to his civilian clothes, too. “I made sure you kept breathing.” Bruce stood over him, brow knitted. “Do you think you feel well enough to stand?” 

“Of course I can stand, Bruce.” 

“Because there’s dancing, tonight. I expect you’ll be the belle of the ball.” 

Dick rolled his eyes. 

“Until then, do you think you're well enough for a little sight-seeing?” 

Dick grinned, and sat up suddenly. His head didn’t even hurt, not really, and even it did hurt a little, he could ignore it if he could get out and explore Paris! 

Bruce grinned, too. “How about we start with the Eiffel Tower, then? I believe it’s traditional.” 

The Paris Ritz was on Place Vendôme, and the Eiffel Tower on Anatole, and Bruce said it was too far to walk, especially considering Dick’s morning adventure, so they took a taxi. 

It was breathtaking, climbing the actual Eiffel Tower—or even, taking the elevator, because 1,665 steps up to the top were a lot! Dick and Bruce made their way through the historic scaffolding and then looking down on Paris. Bruce, of course, had been there before, but Dick hadn’t, and he felt like he could see the entire city from atop the famous building. He took a whole roll of pictures on his Nikon and read every placard. “Did you know that the lift carries enough people up every year to circle the globe two and a half times?” he asked. Bruce nodded and smiled, like Dick’s excitement was infectious. “It was designed by the same architect who designed part of the Statue of Liberty and the Nazi’s tried to take it over! Dr. Bernard’s people didn’t ever attach a huge swastika to the top, but they sure wanted to!” 

After that, they took a double decker bus to Notre Dame, along with Dick didn't know how many other tourists, all crammed together and heading to see "Our Lady of Paris." The gothic cathedral was so majestic and beautiful it took Dick's breath away. They walked the hallowed place with reverence, their footsteps echoing and Dick solemnly oohing and ahhing at the stained glass windows and marble and stately arches. “The heating system installed under the buildings was built by the Romans, Bruce,” he whispered. “Hypercaust, just like the Roman baths. They used a furnace under the floors, built 1700 years ago!” 

Bruce grinned back at him. “Indeed.” 

“Can we go see the crypts?” 

“Of course we can, Dick.” 

The crypts were amazing. Compared to the cathedral, there were hardly any people at all, and Dick couldn’t believe that, but Bruce said that maybe the two of them were just partial to caves. Seeing something that ancient, and being, for a bit, the only two visitors walking around in those spooky ruins, built only about three hundred years after the time of Christ, was _amazing_. It was one of the many places Dick knew existed, but seeing and learning about them _while being in that place itself_ was positively, absolutely, mesmerizing. Dick bought a souvenir for Alfred—a piece of ancient stone that the tourist shop said was really from the crypts, encased in clear resin. He figured Alfred could use it as a paperweight when he did the household bookkeeping, and if anybody beside him and Bruce could appreciate crypts and caves under old buildings, it would be Alfred. 

Finally, though, it was time to go back to the Ritz. Bruce sent Dick up without him, saying he had a bit of business to attend to. “I need to check in with Commissioner Gordon and let him know how the case is coming, Dick.” 

“Doesn’t it feel weird to be doing detective work while you’re Bruce Wayne?” Dick said in a low voice in the lobby. 

“It does, at that. He didn’t have another donor to ask.” 

“Well, you bankrolled the thing. It only makes sense you’d want to save Gotham the embarrassment of having the world find out the necklace get stolen on our turf. But don’t do too good of a job. You don’t want Gordon to think you’re some kind of genius.” 

“No, that wouldn’t do, would it? I’ll play the hapless fool on the phone. If I find out anything, we can always play it off as dumb luck. I’ll meet you upstairs. Now go, hit the books.” 

Dick tried, he really did try, to concentrate on his schoolwork, but now that he’d been out in Paris, it was even harder. He spread the books out around him on the bed and flopped down beside them. 

“Close your eyes,” Bruce said when he returned, sticking his head into the doorway to Dick’s room. 

Sprawled on the bed with an open book, Dick did as Bruce asked. 

“Now open them.” Bruce cocked his head toward the bedside table. 

On the nightstand was a bowl of ice, and standing up in the ice were two frosty green bottles of Coca-Cola. 

“What’s with this, B? You don’t drink soda.” 

“No.” Bruce said, smiling. “They’re for you and a young lady.” 

Dick scrubbed at his eyes. “What?” 

Bruce snagged his hand. “Dick,” he began, choosing his words in that careful way he did when he had to deliver news that might not be well-received. “Your hands are not as feminine as they should be.” 

That surprised a laugh out of Dick. “I’m glad, B!” He punched Bruce in the leg. “What, are you crazy? I mean, I want to do a good job this weekend, but I’m really glad I don’t have girl hands.”  

“We are agreed, Dick.” Bruce nodded, his smile broadening.  

“So what are you going on about? A girl? My hands?” Dick waved his arms, making his best confused face for effect. 

“I have evening gloves for you, but it would be best to be prepared. And besides, women like a well-groomed man.” Bruce looked down at his own nails. “I had a manicure Monday, myself. Met a very nice young lady named Yvette working in the hotel salon.” 

“Oh?” 

“She’s on her way up to the room.” 

“Oh!”  

“Don’t worry, we won’t paint your nails pink until after she leaves,” Bruce said, patting his back reassuringly. “A manly manicure. Someone needs to do it, and I thought you’d rather have a pretty girl hold your hand for a change. Besides, I told your principal you’d get the opportunity to practice your French while you’re on holiday. So far, you’ve spent some time around…” Bruce narrowed his eyes, “several people of different nationalities, including a very unscrupulous baron, but you haven’t gotten much of a chance to practice French with a native French speaker. 

French. With a French, _girl_ native. Dick grinned, jumping up to comb his hair.  

“I’ll put these on the coffee table,” Bruce said, reaching for the drinks and ice. “I think you should work with her in the sitting area, not your bedroom, Dick.”  

“Gosh, yes.” In the bathroom, Dick took a swig of mouthwash. “Thanks, Bruce.”  

Bruce stopped, leaning in the doorway. “Consider it a preemptive reward for," he hesitated, his voice growing serious. "For what you’re going to have to do tonight.” Heading for the main room, he added over his shoulder, “And a French lesson, of course.” 

When she knocked on the door, Bruce looked up from the newspaper he was reading in the far corner and nodded for Dick to answer it. He opened the door. 

Yvette was a knockout. Pretty little brunette, big brown eyes. Stacked, too—with long legs disappearing under the very short skirt of her black uniform. If she’d only had a little apron over it, she could have passed for a French maid from a Pink Panther movie. Or maybe, he thought, his face flushing a little, that one movie he’d caught a glimpse of during that bust at the Nudie Theater. She stood beside a small silver cart, which sparkled with the tools of her trade.  

“Bon—Bonjour Mademoiselle,” Dick stuttered at her, cursing himself for not being more suave.  

“Yvette,” she said, pointing to the small, rectangular nametag on her bosom.  

“I’m—” Dick stopped. He wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be, actually. Right now. Bruce Wayne’s niece was theoretically arriving soon, and Dave had a mustache. Drat. He should have asked Bruce. So he just stood there feeling stupid, trying to figure out what to say, hoping she didn’t ask his name, and not saying anything. 

Luckily, Yvette was not so easily stymied. “Bonjour, Monsieur! Comment allez vous? 

“Comme ci, comme ça,” Dick grinned. Mrs. Spivey only did this at the beginning of every French class. “Et vous?” 

“Très bien.” She smiled back at him, nodded, quick and sure of herself. Her eyes were huge and her lashes were really long.  

Behind him somewhere, Bruce coughed discretely. Dick remembered his manners and stopped blocking the doorway. “Entré, s’il vous plait.” 

She bobbed her head and pushed the little silver cart, tinkling as it rolled, in front of her into the room. “Bonjour, Monsieur Wayne," she called.  

Bruce, feet up on a hassock, reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose, lowered his newspaper. “Bonjour, Yvette. Thank you for coming up to the suite to work with Dick.” 

Dick smiled; good to know who he was supposed to be right now. “Yeah, I mean—yes, thanks,” he stumbled over his words. “Means I get to practice my French and all.” 

“Oh!” She made a disappointed little moue with her mouth. Her lips were full and pretty. “But I want to practice my English!” 

Dick really did not want to disappoint this girl. “Oh. Well, okay. We can do that, too. Hey, I know. I’ll talk to you in French, and you talk to me in English! That way, we both get the practice!” 

She smiled at him. “I think…” she said, carefully enunciating each syllable, “that would be excellent. Good plan, mon ami!” 

Across the room, Bruce smiled before going back to his newspaper. 

Yvette pulled the coffee table closer to the couch. “Let us practice some talking, then. First, you need to sit down.” Although it sounded like ‘seet down’. “And roll up your sleeves.” 

“Um, okay,” he said, sinking down into the couch and unbuttoning his shirt cuffs. 

“En Francais?” She pulled a bowl of sudsy water from her cart and put it on the coffee table.  

“D’accord.“ Dick grinned. "And do you want a coke, Yvette?" he suddenly remembered to ask. “I mean, voulez-vous un Coca-Cola?” 

“No thank you. I don’t want a coke right now, Dick.” She made his name sound so wonderful. ‘Deek’ it sounded like, lush and breathy. She sat down beside him on the couch and smiling sweetly, almost shyly, asked him for his hand. 

He hoped it wasn’t sweaty.  

“Oh no!” she said, holding his right hand. “What is this?” She was staring at the pink rope burn around his wrist. 

“That’s nothing. I mean rein.” Dick shrugged. He dredged up the excuse he’d used last month for Coach Hackermeyer, who'd asked him about the marks on his wrist during Phys Ed because he'd rubbed his skin raw during escape practice. Luckily Bruce usually only tied up one of hands during the school year, using cuffs or something on the other, since two chaffed wrists would be suspicious. “Mon chien.” 

”Your dog?” She pressed his right hand into the bowl of warm water. 

“Uh huh.” Dick nodded. “My dog is a little um… rambunctious.”  

“And that means?”  

“Hmm. Turbulent?” 

She raised an eyebrow. 

He tried again. “Mon chien… est sauvage. Méchant. Mon chien est méchant.” 

She smiled, motioning for him to give her his left hand.  

He did. She had really soft fingers.  

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick noticed that Bruce had lowered his copy of Le Monde. His mouth wasn’t visible, only his eyes, but the way they crinkled at the corners... Dick rolled his eyes at him, then tried again. “You know, how do you say, um—dog walking. Chein walking. Marche de chien.” 

She was still looking at him doubtfully.  

“Un moment” he said, “de corde avec mon chien.” Dick lifted his right hand to pantomime holding a dog’s leash, accidentally flicking soap suds. A foamy bubble landed on her bosom, just below her name tag. “Oh, sorry! I mean je suis désolé!”  

“Is okay.” She laughed, brushing it away. “You should teach your dog to be nicer, Dick.” She pushed back his cuticles and he snuck a look at Bruce, who pretended he hadn’t been watching, then smiled a small, lopsided smile at him. 

”You two young people seem to be getting along well enough,” Bruce said, standing. “I believe I’ll take in some sun on the veranda. He left the patio door open and the breeze and sounds of the city filtered into the room. The faint noise of car engines and honking horns floated up from below. 

Yvette began filing Dick’s nails, deft and efficient and quickly enough that it made the tips of his fingers hot. She smelled good. She was saying something. He blinked, focused. 

“You have very nice hands, Dick.” 

“Um, thanks. I mean, um, merci.” He’d never been complimented on his hands before. “So, do you. Et vous aussi.” 

She beamed at him, all pink lips and sparkling teeth. “So, you are visiting from America?” 

“Oui.” 

She patted the hand in suds. Lifted and dried it. Pushed the other into the water and began filing again. 

“Do you go to,” she hesitated, searching for a word. “… l’université?” 

Dick grinned. “It’s just ‘university’.”  

“University,” she mimicked, echoing the hard ‘u’ sound he’d modeled, her beautiful mouth in a perfect ‘o”.  

Dick forgot to answer. He forgot he’d even been asked a question. Distantly, he registered sounds of traffic. A policeman’s whistle drifted in through the open patio door. 

Her “hmm?” as she waved a nail file at him brought him back. 

He cleared his throat. “Uh, no. Je vais,” and this was another easy one from Mrs. Spivy’s French class, third period, “Je vais au lycée.” 

“Oh,” she said, eyebrows raised prettily in surprise. “I am thinking you are older? How old are you?” 

“Dix-sept. Almost dix-huit. Et vous?” 

“I am twenty-one.” She put down the file and picked up a different tool, began buffing. “Are you having a nice visit to Paris?” 

“Yeah, Paris is swell!” Dick grinned at her. “Je suis allé au Louvre, and cathédrale de notre dame et le tour Eiffel…” 

Have you seen it at night, yet?"

"Non. Seulement en journée." Dick looked out through the glass patio doors, past where Bruce read his paper in the late afternoon sun, and on out onto the city. “Mais j'aimerais bien.” 

“Oh,” she said, excited. You will like it. It is very…” she searched for a word, “romantic.” Although it sounded like she said ‘Eet ees very romantique’. She pulled a bottle of lotion from her cart, squeezed some on the back of his hand. It was cold and pink and smelled like jasmine. “It is where my boyfriend, how you say, popped the question?” 

“Asked you to marry him?” 

“Oui.” She sighed dreamily. “What about you? Do you have a girlfriend in your school?” 

“No,” he laughed, blushing as she caressed his hand, massaging in the lotion. “Not if you mean … um, une fille amie spéciale?” 

She smiled back at him, nodded, kept rubbing. Between his thumb and fingers now, pinching, but it didn’t hurt. It just felt good. She pulled his hand close to her, putting some muscle into massaging his palm. He could feel the fabric of her dress on the back of his hand. Beneath her dress, he could feel the swell of her breasts. His heart began to race a little. “Other hand, please.” She winked at him, smiling, and a little sizzle bolted through him as she let him have his right hand back and took his left one. One at a time, she encircled his fingers with her own, then his thumbs, pushing and pulling.  

He stared at her hands, mesmerized, and tried to think clean thoughts. It didn’t work. He looked away. 

Somewhere, in the street below, a siren was wailing.  

“Yvette, are you sure you don’t want a coke?” he said, feeling a bit parched himself.  

“I suppose I could take it with me, Dick,” she said. “We are finished now.” She let go of his hand and he was sorry it was over. Sorry for the loss and sorry because he really, really, did not need to try to get up and walk across the room right this minute. He needed to stall her. To think clean thoughts and stall her. 

“But,” he tried, watching her put her tools on the tray. “Why not drink it here? It’ll only take a few minutes, and we can finish our language lesson…” 

Yvette looked at her watch. “I am supposed to meet my boyfriend. We sometimes go on break together. But maybe he can wait five minutes.” She inclined her head toward the veranda. 

“Your papa will not mind?” 

“Huh, um what?” He squinted at her for a minute. “Um, no.” He shook his head. Handed her a soda, his lotion-coated hand slippery on the glass of the bottle. “What about your boyfriend, though? Will he be mad at you?” 

She laughed. “Is okay. I will tell him it was for an English lesson.” She took a ladylike sip. “He will only be mad if I kiss another boy.” She winked at him. “But I will be good.” 

Dick snorted a little as he took a long swig of his own coke. Thought clean thoughts. Ran through some baseball statistics. Tried to think of something to say. “So, your … so your boyfriend, I mean um, fiancé. What’s his name?” 

“Nicky,” she said, only she said it like ‘Neeky’. Her eyes went all dreamy again and Dick had the sudden, fervent wish that someday soon some girl would say his name like that, with that happy, lovesick, far-away look in her eyes.  

He tipped more cola into his mouth. “How long have you been engaged?” 

“Almost a year.” She sighed, wistful. “We are trying to save enough money to get married.”  

“Ah.” Dick said. He didn’t like seeing her sad, so he changed the subject. “Um…  
comment as-tu rencontré?” 

“I met him here. He works at the hotel.” She checked her watch again. “I am sorry, Dick. I must go now.” 

Dick really, really did not want to stand up and walk, but he was at least better now. He followed her pretty legs across the suite as she rolled her cart away. 

“I will tell the desk to bill the room for your manicure, then.” 

Dick nodded. “Oh wait!” he said, suddenly remembering a tip. He dug out his wallet. 

Her eyes widened at the ten-spot he handed her. Dick knew it was way too much, but he didn’t even care. She was beautiful and happy and now she was smiling at him like he’d just done something terribly wonderful. At the door she reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you for the English lesson, Dick.”  

“Um, merci to you, too,” he said, his voice cracking a little, “Yvette.” He closed the door behind her and leaned against it, sighing. 

When he opened his eyes, Bruce was back in the room, arms folded across his chest, smirking at him. “So,” he said, tilting his head. “Are you in love?” 

“Bruce!” 

“I told you women like a man with good grooming.” He reached out and tousled Dick’s hair.  

Grinning, Dick ducked his head. “She’s just pretty, is all.” 

“Mmm. I know,” Bruce brushed his thumb along Dick’s cheek. “And you’re blushing.” 

Dick rolled his eyes, swatting Bruce’s hand away. 

Bruce caught his hand and inspected it, running his index finger over the smooth, buffed surface of his nails. “I'll paint them shortly.” 

Dick sighed dramatically, slumping against the door. “Fine,” he snapped. “But you better have acetone in the kit, because that polish is coming off as soon as we get back here tonight.” 

“You know I’m always prepared.” Bruce wrapped his hand around Dick’s wrist, over the rope mark. “Good story about the dog, Dick.” 

“Thanks.” Dick could feel his face flush a little more at the compliment. 

“You should use the dog story tonight if you need to. Speaking of which, we need to get ready. You may have the shower first.”  

Dick pushed off from the door and headed toward the bathroom.  

“Maybe,” Bruce called after him, in the voice he used when he was teasing, “Maybe you ought to make it a cold shower, Dick.” 

“Bruce!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I slipped on a patch of ice today and fell flat on my back! My head hit concrete sidewalk with a really loud, tooth-rattling thunk. I called my mom about the headache I got and she convinced me to go to the hospital and they think maybe I have a minor concussion! 
> 
> All I'm saying is that Dick is a trouper. But we already knew that. :)


	13. The magic of Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, we all just feel... overwhelmed by the moment. This is one of those times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music note: In this chapter, Dick and Bruce listen to what Dick labels as "Brazilian Jazz." He means [Brasil ‘66](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5lNR7tDZjP0) or [Joao Gilberto. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aACiFX-Kzls)

“Sit down.” Bruce patted the couch cushion beside him when Dick emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and in his robe.

“Bruce, I’m antsy. We need to spar. Or spend some time in a gym, really soon.”

“Maybe you’ll get a chance to work off some of your excess energy this weekend,” Bruce said, nodding in commiseration. “But until then, there are all kinds of training, Dick.” Bruce’s voice was low and kind, just slightly louder than the radio he’d switched on. Something soft and a little exotic was playing. Brazilian jazz or something. Dick wasn’t quite sure.

He sat down.

“Look at this as the perfect opportunity to apply your skills of disguise.” Bruce took his right hand first, strong fingers rubbing gently for a moment. “And if you’re feeling restless, work on your deep breathing. Relax your fingers.” 

Dick did, letting his hand rest evenly in Bruce’s. Closed his eyes and tried to practice breathing deeply. Slowly. In time with the languid music.

“Spread them a little for me, please,” Bruce said, holding his hand steady as he painted each nail, repeated the process with Dick’s left hand, then added a second coat to each. When he finished, he lifted Dick’s hand to blow on the nails. 

“I can do that, Bruce.” Dick pulled away, blowing on his own fingers and shaking them to hurry the drying process. 

Bruce lifted Dick’s chin, turning his face slightly to one side, then the other. “It won’t be much.”

“What?” 

“We don’t need to do much. Your skin is very nice as it is.” Bruce was doing that thing where he looked at Dick without really seeing him at all, except as a palette. He reached for the makeup kit on the coffee table and began applying cosmetics.

Dick sighed, stoic while getting his face prodded, pushed, and sometimes caressed by mostly gentle fingers. Eyes lined, lashes blackened, Bruce was quick and deft. Finally, he pulled out the last enhancement, a tube of lipstick labeled ‘Rosebud Pink’. He cranked the shaft of frosty, bright pigment up far enough to apply. “Go like this, please.” Bruce made a moue with his mouth.

Dick complied, and felt Bruce slide the greasy slickness over his lips. Bruce handed him a tissue. He blotted. 

Bruce surveyed his results, nodding slightly. “Yes. I think your face is ready.” He stood, nodding for Dick to follow. “You can go ahead and start getting yourself together. I laid your things out for you.”

“Geez, Bruce,” Dick sighed in the bedroom doorway. Precisely arranged on his bed stretched a long black gown, matching evening gloves, a wig, stockings, and a startling number of undergarments. “Geez.” He started to rub his vaguely itchy eyes. 

Bruce caught his hand before he could mess his makeup. “Don’t ruin my handiwork, Dick.”

“Geez.”

“Details are essential, Dick. You know that. Each piece is part of the whole. And these pieces are the best money can buy. French designers—”

“Is that a girdle?”

“Such an ugly word, Dick. Sometimes an ugly garment. This is more of a corset.” Ivory-colored satin, thankfully lace free, it was designed to fit around the rib cage and skim down to stop just below the hips. Garter straps of ivory elastic and satin dangled from its bottom edge, two in the front, two in the back. “Do you need help getting into it?”

“No, Bruce. It’s just—”

“It’s the only way you’re going to fit into the Givenchy, Dick.”

“I thought you were calling it something else...”

“This one will work better for tonight, but you’re growing a bit faster than I can… than I can quite keep up with. Hence the stays.” Bruce reached for the long, silky black dress. It reminded Dick of the one Audrey Hepburn wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. But that one was made of pearls. Bruce held it up in front of him, appraising. “The off-shoulder cap sleeves will help to camouflage your biceps.” 

Dick sighed. Felt his shoulders slump. 

“Dick,” Bruce said, carefully laying the dress on the bed again. “It’s just a disguise.”

“I know.” He eyed the lacy bra, already filled with padding, lying on his pillow. “It’s just that I wanted to practice something different. You know, be a guy.”

“And sometimes you do, ‘Dave.’” Bruce ruffled his hair. 

“I wish I could be him tonight.”

“Ah, but that’s where the true art lies, Dick. Under no circumstances could I ever mistake you for a girl.” He put a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Unless you wanted me too.”

“Well I don’t want you to—”

“I mean,” Bruce said, slow and serious. “Unless you willed it, and if you willed it, you could fool anyone. By pretending to be almost anyone. It’s just an illusion, you know that. And only for a short time.” He squeezed Dick’s bicep. 

“I know, Bruce.”

“It’s an important part of my plan.”

Dick scowled at the panties on the bed. ‘His’ panties. They were ivory satin, and matched the corset and bra. “And exactly ‘how’ is this part of your plan, Bruce?”

Bruce checked his watch. “I’ll fill you in after I shower. Why don’t you start getting ready.” He paused at the door. “Unless,” he added, “you need my help?” 

“No, B.” Dick straightened his posture, forced a smile. Decided he didn’t want to reach for the panties in front of Bruce. “I’ll get started.”

“Thank you, Dick. You’re a good soldier.”

Dick started shrugging off his robe. 

By the time Bruce came out of the shower, freshly shaven and smelling of the Drakkar Noir aftershave he’d lately begun to favor, Dick had donned the panties, tackled the girdle or corset or whatever it was, with its many, tiny hook and eye closings down his back—and it wasn’t easy to fasten them when you couldn’t even see what you were doing and had to be careful of your freshly painted nails—and started on the stockings.

Reminding himself not to snag anything, either by putting a finger through the delicate silk netting or catching the hosiery on the bandage that covered the stitches on his calf, Dick picked up the first, weightless, leg-shaped, nude-colored length of silk. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he gathered the stocking into a bunch, then slid the thing over his foot. He slowly began pulling the silk up his leg. It was fussy and time consuming. 

Pulling as he worked his way up, he reached the top of his thigh. After a few moments of awkward fiddling, assessing the mechanism of the garter’s closure, he slipped the stocking’s edge into the satin strap that hung from the front of the garment and closed the clasp over it. He congratulated himself when it snapped into place, then sighed as he realized he now had to do it all over again, and also that each leg had two, not one, garter hooks. He stood, reaching clumsily behind himself to fasten the strap that hung from the back of the garment. He must not have lined up something right, because when he tried to fasten the stocking to the rear of the—stupid girdle , he called it, to himself—the stocking came up short, not reaching far enough to meet the clasp that dangled from the rear satin strap.

“Dick,” Bruce called from his own bedroom. “I have something else for you, too.”

”Kay, Bruce!” he answered, pulling hard on the belligerent stocking. But he pulled too hard and he felt his finger go through the gossamer of the netting. “Hell,” he said, mostly under his breath.

“Hmm?” Bruce said, suddenly behind him. 

“I mean ‘heck.’” 

“Hmm.” Bruce said again, but he sounded more amused than angry. “You’ve got a run, Dick.”

“I know, Bruce.” Dick crossed his arms over his chest and turned to glare, although he suspected the effect was mitigated by what he was wearing.

Bruce didn’t respond until he’d calmly finished threading his second mother-of-pearl cufflink through the French cuffs of his starched white shirt. He was clad in black trousers, jacket slung over his arm. His tie hung loosely, draped around his shirt collar, not yet tied. Barefoot, Dick realized. “Luckily, I bought extra stockings.”

“Why am I not surprised, B?” Dick snapped. 

“Temper, temper, Dick.” Bruce quirked an eyebrow. “You really do need a work out, don’t you? We’ll try to take care of that as soon as possible. Right now, however,” he said, fishing a slim, black velvet-covered jewelry case from his tux pocket, “I want to see how this looks on you.” He opened the box to reveal a short triple strand of very large diamonds.

“Bruce, really?” 

“Not real diamonds, I’m afraid. That would be too risky to wear in this environment. However, it’s an excellent costume piece. It will help make your throat more feminine.”

“You mean hide my Adam’s apple.”

“That too, although it’s not terribly prominent. Turn around, please, and let me put this on you,” he said. When Dick did, he lay the cool, large stones against his throat and fastened the closure. Hands on Dick’s shoulders, he steered him into another turn to see how they looked. “Very nice.” He nodded, pleased. 

It felt…weird. Not so tight that it choked him, but like a collar or something. Heavy and constricting. He inhaled deeply, testing. He could breathe fine in it, so it didn’t really interfere. Must be his imagination. It just felt odd, was all. Dick reached up to finger the heavy baubles. 

Bruce smiled. “Glad you like it. There’s a matching bracelet under your pillow.” Crossing the room to the bureau, he used the mirror above it to tie his tie into a quick, perfectly knotted bow tie and to watch Dick retrieve the jewelry case. “Don’t put it on yet, Dick. You’ve got gloves.” 

“I know.” Dick snapped bracelet’s box closed. 

Bruce pulled a fresh stocking from the dresser drawer and stepped close again. “I noticed in the mirror—” he slid his hand down Dick’s back, down the satin of the corset, and with only one hand, adroitly undid the rear garter, “that in addition to a run, your strap was twisted, too. That wouldn’t be very comfortable to sit down on.” Moving to the front strap, he opened it with a single flick of his thumb.

“How can you do that so easy?”

“Easily.” Bruce’s lips quirked playfully. “And I’m surprised you’d ask that, Dick.”

“Well, yeah, I…”

“Like most things,” Bruce said, his tone clipped and pleasant. “Practice.” One hand on each side of the ruined stocking, he knelt to strip it down Dick’s leg. His palms were warm and Dick felt the prickle of goose bumps as Bruce’s sure fingers swept down his legs and the cold air of the room met his now-exposed skin. “Up, please.”

Feeling his face flush just the tiniest bit, Dick raised his foot, and Bruce pulled the silk completely off. “Really, I can do it, B.”

“Oh? Your undergarment is misaligned.”

“What?” Rolling his eyes, Dick tried to look over his shoulder at the line of tiny hooks and eyes on the back of the corset. “Well, they are really tiny and hard to do when you can’t see them, Bruce.”

“Come into the light, please,” Bruce said, switching on the lamp on the bedside table. 

Dick stepped closer. Turned when Bruce motioned for him to do so.

“Let me.” In a single, fluid motion, Bruce undid the line of hooks, and opened the corset like it was a clamshell that had encased him. 

With a momentary chill, Dick felt the satiny fabric fall away, then be replaced, rewrapped tight around his torso. 

“Lean forward, Dick.” Bruce said, his hand on Dick’s shoulder blade. “I need to see what I’m doing. Brace yourself on the bed.”

Rolling his eyes, even though he knew Bruce couldn’t see it, Dick lowered his palms to rest on the bed, stooping forward. 

Bruce started at the top of the corset and methodically began to address the many hooks, threading them into each eye. “I need to brief you on the plan,” he said, his voice gentle in the scary way that meant maybe he had bad news. 

“Huh?”

Bruce’s voice dropped even lower. Batman low. “I’m going to need for you to really turn on the charm tonight, Dick.” 

“With Dr. Bernard?” Dick said, feeling his stomach do a sick little lurch at the idea. 

Bruce must have heard his discomfort, because he stopped his ministrations with the corset and squeezed Dick’s shoulder once, quickly. He leaned close enough that Dick could feel breath on the back of his neck. “It’ll be okay, Dick. I’ll be there and won’t let him do anything.”

“Well, I hope not!” Dick said, a little more emphatically than he’d intended. He brought his voice down. “How come you think he’ll go after me?”

“Because,” Bruce said, continuing to connect hooks with eyes. “I’ve been playing into his… the doctor’s problem. With his unsavory designs on Lorena.”

“Poor Lorena.”

“As soon as we find the necklace I will do anything I can to put the man behind bars forever,” Bruce said, reaching the end of the corset. “So far, I believe Lorena may have escaped his… desire to bestow inappropriate attention. You see, Dick—” he began, reaching for the stocking that Dick had crumpled in preparation to don. “I’ve been studying the man, and I believe he fits the classic behavioral model for lack and compensation. Sit down.”

“Ah,” Dick said, the words ringing a vague bell in his mind. Some psych theory. He dredged up the information in his head. “Lack. He wants something he cannot have—”

“Lorena, yes. She could be construed to represent his ‘lack’, if you will.”

“Uh-huh,” Dick said. It was coming back to him. “So he feels… inadequate.”

“That’s one way to look at it, and it’s best case. Best case, he feels an internal loss. Worst case, self-loathing. He compensates by seeking out something that he feels will ameliorate his loss of control over his condition.”

“Compensation.”

“You do remember then,” Bruce said, pride in his voice. “Good. And yes, even if he’s not aware of the cause of his inner distress.”

“So his compensation is stealing the jewels?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, Dick.” Bruce shook out the stocking in his hand, then sat down on the bed beside Dick and, thumbs in the center, began ritualistically gathering up the length, preparing it for Dick to don again. “Different individuals compensate for their lacks in… in a variety of ways.”

“So?”

“So what, Dick?” Bruce had stopped rolling up the hosiery.

Dick poked him in the arm. “Earth to Bruce. So what’s the doctor’s way?”

“Oh.” Bruce went back to his task. “His way is to try to rise in power in his party.”

“The Reds.”

“Yes, just as he tried, long ago, within the Nazi regime. In the intervening years, he was fairly quiet, until he met his current wife.”

“And her current daughter.”

“Exactly.” Bruce smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile, and didn’t quite make it to his eyes. “The doctor is…drawn to her, and I’ve been using that draw to my own—our own—advantage. I’ve been making a play for her—flirting obviously, and in front of the doctor whenever possible.” Bruce knelt in front of the bed, stocking in hand. “I’ve got him worried, and hopefully he’s worried that I’m…” Bruce looked up at Dick to gauge his reaction, “appropriating what he considers his property. Do you understand?” 

“I think so.”

“And how… that idea might play a psychological part in your role?” He narrowed his eyes.

“You’ve studied your opponent’s weakness, just like you always do.”

“Yes. To exploit it.”

“Just like you always do.” It was making sense, and Dick thought he got it. “And now–I’m arriving.”

“Exactly, Dick. Give me your foot, please.” When he did, Bruce pulled the length of silk over his toes and up to his ankle. “At the party tonight you will be seen—by the doctor—as someone a bit like Lorena. Stand, please. And hold on to me for support if you need to, Dick.”

Dick snorted. He could balance himself just fine, thanks. Bruce really, really needed to get back to Gotham and be himself. Soon. He lowered his foot and Bruce’s hands rose, gently pulling the stocking up his calf to his knee.

“Do you know why he may approach you?” Bruce said, looking up at him from his place on the floor. 

“Because I belong to you. I’m…” he sighed. “I’m your Lorena, right?”

“Exactly, Dick. Your name, by the way is Denise.”

Dick snickered. “Bruce. Next time you’ve got to let me pick the names, okay?”

“Deal.” Bruce smiled for a split second before growing serious again. “I predict that he will try to flirt shamelessly with you. With Denise. Turnabout is fair play, and the man thinks like a gamesman. Tit for tat.” The stocking and Bruce’s hands slid up his thigh, one on the outside, one against his inner thigh, gently tugging up as he went.

“But B, what if he’s done a little research?”

“Hmm?”

“On you?” 

Bruce reached the top of his thigh and placed the hem of the piece of hosiery in between the garter’s hook and button, pulling the tab tight. “Apparently he has done some research, Dick. Don’t you remember his comments this afternoon?”

Dick would rather have forgotten, but he nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

“Yes, please.”

“I mean yes, I know. So, what if he has and he’s found out the truth?”

“The truth?” 

“That you don’t really have a niece.”

“Ah,” Bruce nodded. “Turn around. That’s where… that’s where it’s not going to matter.”

“B, come on. Of course it matters.” He waited for Bruce to snap the rear garter in place. 

“No, Dick. Because you and I are going to pretend that a relationship exists.”

He felt Bruce’s fingers working on his strap. He was getting the picture, but he didn’t like it. “Not sure I’m following you, B.”

“We are going to feign an… inappropriate attraction to one another.”

“Oh.” Dick didn’t know quite what to think about that, he realized, as the garter snapped into place.

“Lean forward; let me see if there’s enough give in your straps.” Bruce gently pushed him toward the bed. “We don’t want them popping open at some inopportune time.”

Dick braced his hands on the mattress, felt it dip with his weight.

“It is of course, immoral,” Bruce continued. “But it doesn’t matter whether the doctor believes we are truly related and have succumbed to a… perversion of our roles, or believes it is a false front that we are using it as a ploy to hide a more traditional—yet still sordid, inappropriate relationship. Either way serves our purpose.”

“Oh.” The pieces were starting to fall into place. “So that’s why you had Matches make the crack about Bruce Wayne ‘liking the young ones.’”

“Exactly.” Bruce ran his hand along the back of Dick’s leg, over the silky length of stocking, then up over the bare skin of his uppermost thigh. It tickled a little, made his skin all tingly. “I’m glad you didn’t shave your legs after all, Dick. No reason for you to have stubble later. Not when you have only the merest trace of soft, pale...” Bruce’s hand skimmed down the few inches of exposed skin between the top of his stocking and the hem of his—Dick blushed, just having to think the word. Panties. He got his mind back on the case. “Do you think he’ll go for it?”

“The doctor?” Bruce asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “Indeed I do. How could he not? You look …” Bruce cleared his throat, stepping back. “You look very nice, Dick—sit down now, please—and between the way you’ll perform tonight and the psycho-behavioral setup I’ve prepared for the good doctor, I believe,” Bruce said, reaching for the other stocking. “I believe we will soon have him eating out of the palm of your evening-gloved hand.”

“You shouldn’t eat with gloves on, B.”

“Speaking purely idiomatically, of course. Thank you for remembering your manners.” Bruce smiled, but didn’t look up, his attention focused on gathering up the second length of stocking into something that could be put on.

“Wait, how are we going to make him think we—I mean Denise and you—like each other in—um… that way?”

“We are going to have to truly be masters of disguise, Dick.” Bruce’s face was serious and solemn as he sunk down to kneel at his feet. “Truly act the part. I’ll pretend I can’t take my eyes off of you, touch you with just a tad more familiarity than is strictly appropriate.” Deep blue eyes looked up into Dick’s own. “I’ll make very bad jokes, you’ll laugh too loud…” his voice trailed off.

Pretend to be in love. “Flirt then. With you.” Dick could feel something tighten in his chest, as his heart beat a little too fast. 

“Ah, you have the disadvantage, Dick. As soon as you finish your transformation, I’ll have a new conquest to charm. You’ll have to make do with your imagination, because it’s just going to be me. Foot, please?” Bruce smiled at him, but it wasn’t genuine. It was one he used with girls, Dick realized with a weird, kind of sick flutter in his stomach. At parties and stuff.

“Not really you, though, Bruce.”

“Hmm?” Bruce pulled the hose upwards to the middle of his leg, until one hand was on each side of his left thigh. Bruce patted his knee. “Stand.”

“Well, it’ll be Bruce Wayne the socialite,” Dick said, rising to his feet. “Not Bruce Wayne, the real you.”

“True.” Holding the silk in on hand, satin strap in the other, Bruce attached the two. “Turn, please?”

Dick was starting to feel more and more uncomfortable, and he—heck. He was used enough to reading Bruce’s moods. Bruce was uncomfortable, too. So he tried for levity, without really thinking it through. “I mean, at least I don’t have to try to flirt with Batman or something.”

That surprised a laugh out of Bruce. A short, little bark of a laugh that was almost like pain. He snapped the last garter in place and it stung a little as it hit the bare skin on the back of his thigh. 

“Ow!”

“Sorry,” Bruce said, quickly. “Slipped.” He rubbed the spot that stung. His hands were smooth and cool. 

“Paris is great, but I’ll be glad when we can get back home, too, Bruce. Get back out as Batman and Robin.” 

“Mmm.” Dick knew that tone, and knew Bruce was a million miles away when he used it. Probably thinking about head games with the doctor, because he continued trying to soothe his skin, pressing the hot sting with an index finger, absently sliding it up and down. 

Dick was… Dick needed him to stop doing that. Sure, it was just a physiological reaction. He knew that from health class. And experience. It always happened at the worst possible, weirdest times. He tried to will it away. Thank God he’d taken care of himself in the shower, or… it could be even worse, instead of still manageable, like this. He tried to think of something to say—something to bring Bruce back to the present, get him to stop and let him think. Give him a chance to get his… composure back. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Guess you can’t wait to be Batman again, huh?” He winced inwardly as he said it, and along with the ache in his chest that surged up, he felt his hardness wilt a little. Still, he wasn’t ready to turn around. “This is just a vacation, right? A working vacation?”

The question was enough to make Bruce’s hand drop, and Dick heard him sigh. “Dick,” he said.

“Yes?” 

“Turn around please. I need to see your face, Dick. Explain to your face."

Dick could die. He didn’t turn around, instead mumbled something about how it wasn’t his real face, at the moment, anyway. “I’m a girl right now, remember, Bruce?” And he was—dressed as a girl, with an erection. Did that mean he liked it? He mentally chewed himself out. Because he most certainly didn’t like dressing like a girl. It’s just all that touching and snapping on stockings and he just… why did his body have to do this to him all the time lately? It didn’t even matter how often he took care of himself—

“Dick,” Bruce said, his voice all but pleading as he grasped Dick’s shoulder and made him pivot to face him. 

For a moment, Bruce was in too much pain of his own to notice Dick’s physical response. Then things became—and Dick wouldn’t have guessed it was possible, but he’d have to admit he would have been wrong—even more awkward. Bruce was embarrassed, and that was really more than Dick could deal with, so he closed his eyes, ordering himself to just—please—settle down. He wondered which one of them was more mortified right this second. He would have thought it would be him, but Bruce looked pretty darn rattled himself. 

“Dick,” Bruce started to say, and Dick prayed that Bruce didn’t say anything to make it worse. He wondered if a cold shower would have kept him out of this situation; wished himself anywhere but here, right now, in this outfit. In this state.

Bruce took a deep breath, tried again. “You’ve just spent an afternoon with a pretty girl and you’re seventeen.” Bruce kept his eyes high, on Dick’s face, and touched his cheek. “I think you can finish things by yourself, Dick. He waved toward the few remaining pieces of Denise’s costume on the bed. I’ll… I’ll wait for you downstairs in the hotel bar." Bruce headed for the bedroom door, checking his watch as he went to put on his shoes. “Twenty minutes,” he said. He didn’t look back, but there was a question in his tone.

“Yeah, Bruce. I’ll be there," Dick said, and Bruce didn't even correct his 'yeah.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you don’t hate the dynamic in this chapter! I know the people who commented last chapter liked that dynamic a lot. This chapter has a... slightly different dynamic. Let me know what you think. I hope you still like it!


	14. Les Bonnes Choses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick tries something new, yet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may only be able to update once this week. I apologize. I'm working a lot of hours right now and I keep tweaking these chapters, wanting to make them as perfect as I can. And I don't think I can get another one perfect enough to post this week. Don't worry, there will definitely be another chapter next week! I promise!

Dick stood in the lobby of the Ritz, just outside the hotel bar, and took a deep breath. On this side of the doorway, it was bright and cheery, filled with the clinking sound of the concierge's bell and the conversations, largely in French, but also in Spanish and English and German, going on in the lobby. On the other side of the partly open door, it was dark and swanky, filled with cigarette smoke, the sound of tinkling ice cubes, the low buzz of conversation and soft music. The jazz quartet advertised on the sign in the lobby must've been on break and someone had put on a Johnny Mathis album. "I Look at You" was playing. Dick took another deep breath and stepped through the doorway and into the dim and decidedly adult atmosphere. Everyone in the place was dressed to the nines, so he didn’t look like a sore thumb or anything—except that he—well, he was pretty sure he was the only guy in drag. He took a third deep breath and stepped down the two steps that took him into the bar itself. The people nearest the entrance turned to look at him first, then the couples at small tables for two, then the trio of dance couples on the the floor, and finally the half-dozen men at the bar, including the best-looking guy in the room, Bruce. 

Dick kept his steps small as he negotiated his path, avoiding everyone’s eyes except Bruce’s, whose face lit up with that charming but goofy, trying-to-look-entranced man-about-town smile of his as Dick got closer. He’d been in bars before—Robin had been in plenty of bars, but not for a drink, and he’d never, ever sat down at a real bar. But Bruce stood, took his gloved hand with a warm, “Hello, Denise,” and pulled out a tall chair, waiting for him to take a seat. 

“Sit down, darling,” Bruce said, and Dick gripped Bruce’s hand a little tighter. 

Bruce stopped smiling and squeezed back, nodding once. 

The bartender, a round little bald man, eyeballed Dick for a minute—and Dick didn't particularly like the eyeballing—before he turned his attention back to Bruce and asked him for his order. 

“Champagne,” Bruce said.

“Veuve Clicquot, Tattinger, Dom Pérignon, B—” 

“Celui-là,” Bruce said, his smile, this one for the help, plastered in place. “That one.” 

“’61, monsieur?” 

“Mais naturellement,” Bruce said, turning to Dick, his smile shifting, and it was disconcerting to have Bruce's playboy smile turned all on him. “Only the best for the lady.” 

Dick cringed inside, but told himself to buck up. Besides, he had more important concerns. Champagne? They were on a case.

The man left to get it, and Dick turned to Bruce, eyes wide. “Okay, Bruce?” he said, his voice a bare hiss. 

“We’re playing a part.” Bruce signaled that they were being watched and ran his index finger along the glossy bar top to indicate two men at the far end: a big bruiser in a wrinkled suit and another tough in shades, both huddled over highballs. “The doctor’s bodyguards.” 

“Oh,” Dick said, keeping his voice a soft—and he hoped—girlish sounding whisper. 

“Ah, thank you, barkeep," Bruce said as the man returned. The bartender held out a chilled green bottle and he and Bruce went through a ritual of inspection and tasting before the bartender poured two glasses. 

“Denise?” Bruce said, raising his for a toast. 

Dick reached for his own and followed along, clinking his glass to Bruce’s. 

“To adventures in Paris.” 

Even the itchy layer of makeup and a dark bar probably wasn’t enough to hide the jittery thrill running through him. It'd be better to be in a tux like Bruce—way better—but at least he was working a case. In Paris, in a bar. Being spied on in a Paris bar, by… spies. Dick took a sip of his drink. It wasn’t too bad. Not too bad at all. He let it roll across his tongue, tasting. Bubbly and a weird mixture of sour and sweet. Almost like… kind of like lemony pop, maybe. 

“Think of it as one of those finer things we talked about.” Bruce’s eyes glittered in the flicker of the small candle the bartender was lighting for them. “Do you like it?” 

“Um, yeah.” Dick said softly. He used his napkin to wipe at the smeared pink half circle his lipstick left on his glass, waiting for the bartender to leave them alone again so he could use something very close to his regular voice, as long as he was low and quiet about it. “It’s really… nice, Bruce.” 

“Good. You look lovely tonight,” Bruce took a sip, “Denise.” He grinned, and Dick’s stomach did a little drop-and-flutter, because it was another smile, the kind he wasn’t used to getting from Bruce, kind of a wolfish grin and Dick almost had to stop himself from turning around to see who Bruce was looking at like that, because it… he didn’t want to talk about how he looked, is all. He took another swallow of champagne. Changed the subject. 

“I feel like I’m in a James Bond movie or something.” 

“Well, you _do_ only live twice.” 

“Is that a joke?” 

Bruce raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh, please, Bruce! That’s terrible.” Dick rolled his eyes. 

“I’m only prepping for the party, Dick,” Bruce said, all splay-fingered mock innocence. 

“Do we have time? For that or for…” Dick waved his hand at the drinks. “This?” 

“Yes.” Bruce tilted his glass, playing with it. “In fact, I think it would behoove us to be fashionably late. Add to our little fiction, especially if we pretend to go up to our room, briefly. In a moment.” He fingered a coaster that lay on the bar top before looking up at Dick again. “Do you see?” 

Dick gulped another swallow of champagne. He did. 

Dick’s left hand was on the bar, and Bruce reached over, lay his larger hand atop Dick’s smaller, gloved one. 

“I’ll make this up to you.” 

Gratitude washed over him, replacing some of the flippy, nervous butterflies. Bruce understood how weird this was and everything was going to work out fine. “Okay, Bruce.” Smiling, Dick tried to put his heart in it. He took another swallow of champagne and realized he’d drained his glass. Well, they _were_ tiny glasses. 

“It’s alright, Denise,” Bruce said. He poured more, all purring playboy charm—in his look, his tone—the way he moved, even the way he poured champagne. He winked at Dick before leaning close and adding, under his breath, “You’re doing fine. Besides, we’ll eat something shortly, and,” he clinked his crystal flute to Dick’s, “I’ll look after you until then.” 

Dick took another swig of champagne and heard himself make an audible swallowing sound. He snuck a quick look at Bruce to see if he’d heard and caught sight of something just past Bruce’s elbow. “Oh, look!” he said, pointing to a bowl of matchbooks. 

"Sotto voce, please." 

“Get me one, will you?” Dick said, rolling his eyes but lowering his voice. 

Bruce tossed him a pack. “For your collection?” 

“Yeah.” Dick ran his finger over the embossed gold Ritz logo. “I might flatten it and put it in my scrapbook, though.” He slipped the souvenir into his little black evening bag. 

“I saved a museum brochure for you too, by the way.” 

“Hey, Bruce, thanks!” 

The album moved to the next song: "It's Not for Me to Say." A few couples danced on the bar’s dim, smoky dance floor. “Shall we?” Bruce said. 

“I guess so.” It would be a good warm up for the party. “But this one isn’t even fast enough to do fun moves too, so—” he said, but Bruce was busy watching the men at the end of the bar. 

“Fantastic.” Bruce stood, forcing Dick to follow, slipping his arm into his as he escorted him to the shadowy dance floor. Taking Dick’s hand, a forearm behind his shoulder blade, they began a simple, slow-moving foxtrot. 

“I want you to be sure to dance with Dr. Bernard tonight. As early in the evening as possible.” 

Dick nodded. The last time he’d had to go out dressed like a girl, he hadn’t had to try to flirt with anybody, and still some guy had come on to him. It was hard to keep your cover when some jerk kept trying to accidentally touch your fake breasts and you just wanted to punch him out. Bruce would look out for him, though. He always looked out for him. 

He relaxed into the dance step, and they moved in well-oiled tandem. It was good that they’d practiced in the room, because this time, Bruce was dancing with him naturally, the he way did most of the times Dick had seen him dance. Smooth and perfect, leading him with precision and grace around the floor and into turns. At the next pause in the music, Bruce led him into a dip, and he arched his neck and back, enjoying the movement and the memory of Superman, laughing at them from the balcony. He smiled as Bruce pulled him back up into his arms. 

“What is it?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Really? Such a far-away look.” 

“Thinking about Clark, is all.” 

“I see.” 

“Just that he was watching us last time and—” 

“Mm.” Bruce twirled him, and when they reconnected again, they were closer, Dick’s cheek almost touching—no, now, as Bruce led him back and up again, really touching—Bruce’s clenched jaw. He could smell the scent, not only of Bruce’s aftershave, but of the shaving cream he’d used and rinsed off earlier. And under that, the smell of Bruce himself. The smell of his skin and him and... too close. It was suddenly too warm and too close and too much. He felt woozy and strange. 

”Bruce,” he said softly, pulling away as much as Bruce would allow. 

“This,” Bruce said, his voice between a hiss and whisper, “is how close you'll need to dance tonight.” His arm tightened, and Dick was pressed hard against his chest. He could feel his heart spike, beating against Bruce’s, and he swore he could feel Bruce’s heart rate spike too. 

“Do you see?” Bruce said, and Dick felt his chest vibrate against his. Felt his ear bump Bruce's face when he nodded. His body was warm and flushed against Bruce’s and he was so glad he jerked off before he came down here. It didn’t feel too manly to jerk off in pulled down panties and… all the rest, but it’s not like he watched himself in the mirror or anything, and anyway—even though he wasted a few minutes to do it, he was glad he had done it at all, or things… And then Bruce dipped him as the song ended, sending his head and torso back and pelvis thrusting up and he could feel Bruce. Really _feel_ him. He wasn't hard or anything, he was just _there_. Against his thigh. 

Dick gasped. Then blinked, taking in, even upside down, the approaching uniform trousers of one of the hotel’s staff. 

“Di—Denise, are you alright?” Bruce pulled him back up to a standing position. 

“Mr. Wayne?” A bellboy was suddenly asking. “Phone call.” 

In the bar, the record started a new track, still Johnny Mathis, this time singing the creepiest one yet, "Come to Me," it's sound fading as they neared the concierge desk. There, Dick watched Bruce speak into a receiver. By the time he hung up, the men who’d been spying on them in the bar had made it into the lobby, too. 

“Dr. Bernard.” Bruce said, whispering as he took his arm and steered him toward the elevators. “Has consented to a meeting. I’m going to leave with his operatives.” 

“The bodyguards?" Dick whispered back.

"Yes."

"Give me a sec. I'll change and go with you.” 

“No. I have to go alone.” 

“I don't like it, Bruce. And what about the party?” 

“The doctor is expected at the same function. The meeting will be brief, nearby, and is a preamble to getting real work done later tonight.” 

“I don’t like it, Bruce.” 

“Neither do I, but it’s all we have to go on.” 

”I’d rather come with you.” 

“Believe me, I’d rather have you at my side.” He squeezed Dick’s bare arm, just below the gown’s cap sleeve. “In any of your personas.” Bruce punched the button to summon the elevator down to the lobby. “But I will return shortly.” 

He glanced toward the doctor’s bodyguards, waiting at the lobby entrance. “We are not alone.” 

Dick nodded. “Yeah, Bruce. I know.” 

Bruce stepped closer, blocking Dick’s view of the men. His voice was soft. “That's why I’m going to pretend to kiss you, Dick.” 

Oh god. 

Dick forced himself to keep breathing. It’s just Bruce. Just Bruce. Just undercover work. Just Bruce. 

Bruce tilted his head up gently. Then, in a whisper that anybody a few feet away could’ve thought might be ‘je t'aime toujours’ he said, “Part your lips a little, Dick. Pretend we’ve done this before.” 

Bruce’s breath smelled like champagne and Dick remembered to put his arms around him but he didn’t remember to close his eyes, even as he watched Bruce close his own. It was off-center, but close enough to fool the thugs by the door. Gentle, soft, and delicate, like Bruce was just barely tasting the corner of his mouth, only for a moment, before he swept his cheek and nose along Dick's jaw and inhaled deeply, face pressed into his neck, just below his earlobe. 

The elevator door dinged behind them, opening, and Bruce pulled back. Let him go and he almost kind of lost his balance, but Bruce caught him, kept him on keel. 

“Okay?” Bruce touched his cheek, the barest ghost of a smile on his face, but not the kind that reached his eyes. 

Dick nodded, blinked. 

Behind him the elevator door was closing, and he wasn’t on it yet. Bruce’s hand shot out to hold the empty car open. “Order yourself something to eat. Something room service can put together quickly. You look like you could use a snack.” 

“Bruce?” 

“Yes?” 

“You’ve got,” Dick reached out to run a gloved fingertip over the smudge on the corner of his mouth, “lipstick.” 

Bruce caught his wrist. “Leave it.” 

“Oh.” Dick stepped backwards onto the elevator, Bruce still holding on to him. The doors began to slide together. “Guess it only helps your story, right?” 

Bruce let go. “I don’t want you to soil your gloves.” He turned away and the elevator doors closed shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sending much love to you, readers. And your feedback makes me as giddy as Dick, trying to get the goods on criminals in the city of lights.


	15. An Ominous Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens.

Dick staggered a little in the elevator. Teetering in his heels, he caught himself with an outstretched arm, slamming his hand against the wall just above the control panel. Without really seeing them at all, he watched the buttons marked 1, 2 and 3 light up, then darken again, one at a time from bottom to top. It took until the fourth floor for his instincts to kick in, and they did, just as the piped in "Girl from Ipanema" Muzak wrapped up and the elevator dinged to a stop, opening in front of a ruddy-faced inebriated man in a kilt who just stood there, blocking the way, obviously befuddled as to whether the lift was heading up or down.

Up, so Dick shot past the guy and out of the thing. No time to wait for a ride down, so he headed for the stairs. Why hadn’t Bruce let him get more info on the goons? On the meeting place? Because Bruce always thought he could handle everything, that’s why.

Didn’t matter, because Dick knew he should have thought of it himself. As Bruce’s partner, he should have. He let himself get too wound up in the little performance he and Bruce played out in front of the doctor’s bodyguards—and it’s not like the dancing and champagne had helped, but that was all in a detective’s day’s work, right? Play a part, fool the bad guys.

But he’d gotten a little too caught up in his role to think of it right then, damn it. If he hadn’t been so rattled, he would have. He did his best to shake off the heavy feeling of guilt for skipping protocol, for letting Bruce down. Partly because, well—maybe everything would work out fine. But mostly because putting himself down right now wasn’t going to help the mission. Or Bruce. If Bruce needed any help. That’s why Dick was here in Paris, right?

The high heels slowed his steps, so at the third-floor landing, he yanked them off, tugged up his dress so he didn’t trip over the hem, and sprinted down the remaining two flights in his stocking feet. Then out the stairwell and through the busy hotel lobby past the front desk and concierge and milling guests and staff, then finally on out the lobby doors, into the darkening evening and the sea of traffic and bellboys and taxis and valets and pedestrians buzzing in front of the Paris Ritz.

He grabbed the first hotel employee he saw, a young guy in a cap, who was standing at the curb unloading luggage from the trunk of a cab.

“You,” he said, and the guy looked up from what he was doing, confused.

Dick remembered how he was dressed, and smoothed his voice into something more fitting for… Denise. And his evening gown. He also realized he was barefoot, holding his stupid shoes by the heels in one fist. He weighed the weirdness of putting them on now in front of the guy with just pretending he was some quirky girl tourist and decided to go with the second option. “You see three guys come out of here?” He jerked his head at the door.

“Pardon?”

“Trois hommes. Come out of the hotel?”

The guy shrugged. “Maybe.” He reached for another suitcase.

Great. Dick scanned him up and down to see if this guy was just going to yank his chain, because if so, he might as well move on to the next possible witness—and then he noticed the nametag: Nicolas. Interesting.

“Nicky,” he said, using his best version of a flirtatious lilt. That got the guy’s attention. “I’m a friend of Yvette’s.”

Without taking his eyes off of Dick, Nicky hauled another piece of Samsonite from the trunk of the taxi. “Yeah?”

“I’m looking for a man.”

“Vraiment?” The guy waggled his eyebrows, leering. “And now you have found one, baby.” He said it with a heavy French accent, and with the accent on the second syllable.

Dick rolled his eyes. “A certain man. My friend left with, um… avec deux autres hommes. Big men.” Evening bag in one hand, shoes in the other, Dick waved his arms to show how big, hands high for tall and far apart for broad-shouldered. “Deux—” he searched for the word but couldn’t find it. “Deux… thugs,” he tried.

“Gangsters?” Nicky was French, but he definitely knew some English. Or at least liked American movies.

“Uh huh!”

“With a man in a tuxedo?”

“Oui.”

Nicky loaded the last suitcase onto a rolling cart, then turned to wink at Dick. “Your boyfriend?”

“What? No. I mean—” Dick rocked back and forth on his feet with impatience. “You saw them? About five minutes ago?”

“They got in a taxi. Philippe’s taxi.”

“Where’d they go?”

“How would I know, baby?” Nicky pushed the valet cart toward a waiting bellboy. “Philippe took them. But if you stick around, maybe we could wait for him,” he smacked his lips in a quick air kiss, “together.”

Dick resisted the urge to throttle the guy. Tried to keep his voice playful. “Listen, I need to talk to Philippe, okay? You tell him there’s a ten in it if he rings room 512 when he gets back.”

“What’s in it for me, beautiful?”

“Same for you, pal. Ten spot.”

“Okay, but it may take a while,” Nicky said, and for the first time since they’d begun talking, he looked like he was taking Dick seriously. Or Denise. Whoever. “Quelle heure est-il?” He shoved up his shirtsleeve to check his watch. “Philippe likes to take his dinner break about now.”

Dick sighed. “He’ll be back, though, right?”

“You bet.” A Mercedes honked at the curb for service. Nick waved to the driver. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

“But you’ll do it, right? Tell him, 512?”

“You’ve got it, baby,” Nicky said over his shoulder.

Turning back to the hotel, Dick took a deep breath—it felt like the heavy necklace was choking him. He reached up to finger the big stones, resisting the urge to yank them off. Nothing else to do for it except wait. He could wait out here, but then he’d have to put up with Nicky. Besides, Bruce wanted him to wait in the room. Plus, he might call.

Heck, maybe he already had. Dick let out a little whoop when he got back to the suite. The small red light on the phone was blinking. He did have a message. He dialed the front desk.

“A gentleman called, sir.”

The clerk had a crisp British accent, and suddenly Dick missed Alfred. He pushed the feeling away. “What’d he say?”

“Let me check, monsieur.” There was a brief pause and the crinkle of paper. “He wanted to speak with a Mademoiselle Denise. When I told him there was no answer, he said just to let her know that he would call again.”

“Uh huh.” Dick scrubbed his face with his hand. Jeez, this makeup was itchy. “Anything else? Did he leave his name?”

“No sir.”

Soon, Dick’s pacing had flattened a path in the nap of the plush hotel carpet, forming a trail that went from the main door to the sliding glass balcony door, veered left to the wall, then crossed back to the hallway door again. Forcing himself to wait, he counted ten more circuits around the perimeter before stopping midway between the loveseat and armchair, next to the small round table. Eyebrows pulled in a tight line, he reached past discarded evening gloves and the cold plate of fries he’d ordered—but couldn’t make himself really eat—to pick up the receiver again. Just to make sure it was working. But then it was in his hand, and he had to go ahead and dial the lobby, even though there was a risk. Someone could be trying to call him right this very moment, so he kept the call short. No new messages. The guy on the. other end of the line sounded testy. “If there is a call, we will ring the room, sir,” he snapped.

Dick stood there for a second after hanging up, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the door. He knew he could do another equipment inventory, but that seemed redundant. He didn’t need anything out of their kits anyway and then he’d just have to stow it all back again in the air conditioning vent where they’d hid it. And if he had it all spread out when Bruce needed him, he’d delay the mission while he put it away. He wanted to be ready as soon as Bruce knocked on the door. Or Philippe rang from the lobby. Or whoever it was called back for Denise. Had it been Bruce? Why the cryptic non-message instead of a real one?

He glared at the phone, then started pacing again. His stockings were filthy now, but it wouldn’t show after he put his heels back on. _If_ he put his heels back on. Was he going to spring into action as Denise? As Robin? He needed to think. He flipped up and started walking on his hands. Five laps around the room later, he was just passing the stupid heels he’d lobbed into the corner when the phone jangled.

Dick flipped back upright again and snatched up the receiver. “Bruce?”

“The front desk, sir. A parcel has arrived.”

“Where’s it from? Who’s it to?”

“Appears to have been dropped off at the door. Shall I send it up?”

“Um,” Dick said, deciding it’d be faster to go get it. “No. I’ll be right down. But if somebody calls, ask them to hold on until I get down there.”

He made it to the hallway before realizing he was still barefoot. And kept going anyway. Taking the stairs two at a time, moments later he was in the hotel lobby, holding a small package that was about three by five inches long and two inches deep, wrapped in brown paper and string. ‘Suite 512’ was written in smudged, wavery ink. Not Bruce’s writing. When he shook the little box, it rattled.

He cleared his throat to reach the proper register. “Who brought this?” he asked the desk clerk, a roly-poly guy with a handlebar mustache and the British accent that made him homesick. The man shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. Sorry. Was on break when it got here. Somebody dropped it off out front, I believe.”

Dick untied the strings around the parcel, his fingers a little wobbly as he worked the knot, which wasn’t like him. He willed his hands steady, then tore off the brown paper. And opened the box to see a mother-of-pearl cufflink. One of the pair he’d watched Bruce put on only a few hours ago.

Folded underneath it was a note, typed on a late-model Smith Corona, looked like. With an old ribbon. The pale gray type read:

Monsieur David Mathews,  
Your presence is cordially requested at 1818 Rue de Matin, the DuMarier Estate, where a party is in session. Please be so kind as to bring what you know we want. If you do not comply, the next package we send will contain something dearer to your lover than a mere piece of jewelry. It will hold a piece of Mr. Bruce Wayne himself. Perhaps a finger. Perhaps something more intimate. Your actions decide his fate.


	16. A New Plan?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick improvises.

Dick stared at the note, his mind and heart racing. Did they really have Bruce? ‘Have him’ have him? Could be a trick. The note was addressed to Dave Matthews but the body of the letter was obviously addressed to Denise, so what did that mean? Bruce had made it clear to everybody that Denise was his girlfriend, right? His girlfriend or niece or… whatever.

And someone had called for her. For Denise. Was supposedly calling back for her. He looked down at the paper in his hand. Yet someone also wanted David Mathews to come to the party. And bring something. What? 

He tried to sort out his thoughts, tried to quell the sick, panicky worry that was pooling in his gut. Bruce wanted him to wait here. At the hotel. And so did whoever’d called earlier. Or at least they wanted to talk to Denise. 

Of course, this could be a set up. They might not even have Bruce at all. Bruce could come walking through that door any minute, making Dick glad to be embarrassed that he almost fell for it.

Dick stared across the lobby at the door, watching people come and go, wishing.

If Bruce wasn’t in trouble, he’d have heard from him by now. 

But Bruce could get himself out of anything. Well, almost anything. Dick reviewed the handful of times he’d found him in a tough spot, and Robin had saved the day. Or tried to. His heart skipped a beat. Except the one time Bruce hadn’t wanted to be saved.

But that was different, and what would Bruce do if the tables were turned? He’d been grabbed before—Robin had been grabbed before, plenty of times. And so what did Bruce do then? He went after the bad guys, that’s what. He didn’t wait around for Dick to come back safe and sound; he just… went into action. How? The way he did everything. By first, being a detective. 

Dick’s hand tightened into a fist, crumpling the note he was holding. 

He looked around the lobby, realization dawning that he could very easily be being watched right now. Whoever brought that package could be spying on him to see his reaction. He took in the other people around him. Some tourists standing over by the concierge desk, the concierge, a businessman or two, a lady, a couple, and sitting by herself, on the other side of the room, a girl curled up in a chair, reading a magazine… Yvette. And suddenly Dick saw a way to get a little more detective work done.

“Yvette?” He didn’t bother to use a fake voice.

She looked up from her copy of French Vogue.

“Yvette, it’s me, Dick.”

“Deek?” She tilted her head, squinting at him.

“From earlier.”

She stared, glossy magazine page frozen in mid-turn. “The American?”

“From this afternoon, yeah.”

One eyebrow quirked up and she very slowly shook her head. “But you are…” 

“Yeah, it’s just…” He crouched down beside her chair, satin gown pooling around him, and spoke softly. “I’m undercover.”

“Undercover?’

“In disguise.”

“Déguisement?”

“Incognito.”

“What?”

“It’s a—long story. See… me and Bruce are both undercover.”

“Your papa?”

“Look, he’s—We’re both on a case. Detectives.”

“Ah.” The tone sounded like she understood. The look on her face said she didn’t.

“For the U.S. We’re doing a job for the government.”

“Oh!” She sat up a little straighter. “My parents, erm... la Résistance! What kind of job is it?”

“Um… it’s pretty complicated but I—jeez. I think I need…. Yvette, can you help? All you have to do is come up to my room.”

Her eyebrows drew together in a thin line.

“I mean—not like that, Yvette. I just need you to answer the phone. It’ll be like practicing your English?” 

“Hmph.” She finally turned the page of her magazine. “I don’t think I should come up to your room, Dick.”

“Look, I know you probably get a lot of guys trying that—you know, working in a hotel and all.” 

“Mmm.”

“But if I was going to try to make time with you, you think I’d do it in a dress?”

That made her smile.

“My partner’s in trouble,” Dick said, biting his lower lip and tasting leftover lipstick. “I think I need to go rescue him. And somebody wants to talk to—to the me I’m supposed to be in this dress and I can’t be in two places at once. I just need you to answer the phone. Say yes to whatever they want, and then tell me what they said.”

“Where will you be?”

“I’ll call and check in, okay?”

“My boyfriend will not like it, Dick.”

Dick rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah, Nick. Do you have to tell him?”

At the look on her face, he tried again. “Okay, I get it. Hang on.” He stood up. “Can you wait here for a minute?” 

“That’s what I’m doing, Dick. I just am waiting for my boyfriend to get off work.” She waved a hand toward the lobby doors. “He is parking cars out—”

“Okay, okay. Hang on. And read this.” He handed her the note and headed for public telephones in the far corner of the lobby.

“Front desk,” the clipped voice on the end of the line answered.

“This is, um…” Dick lowered his voice as far as he could. “Bruce Wayne.”

“Yes, Mr. Wayne.”

“Do you have any rooms available on the fifth floor?”

“Let me check, sir.”

From across the room, Dick watched the roly-poly desk clerk consult his listings. 

“Yes we do, Mr. Wayne. 501, 513 and 526.”

“513 will be fine. I’d like to charge that to my Diner’s Club, please. You have it on file.”

“You’ll be keeping 512, sir?”

“Yes.” Dick cleared his throat, aiming for his best Bruce Wayne, millionaire playboy tone. “And clerk?”

“Yes, Mr. Wayne.”

“Two young ladies are going to be picking up the key at the desk.”

“I see, sir. And will the ladies need help with their luggage?”

“No,” Dick said, ignoring the smarminess creeping into the guy’s voice. “But they will be by momentarily.”

“But of course, Mr. Wayne.”

“Excellent. One more thing, please?”

“Yes?”

“This is very important. Send all calls for 512 to 513. You can do that, correct?”

“Absolutement, monsieur Wayne.” 

Dick turned to Yvette, who was suddenly right behind him, eyes wide. She held out the note to return it, hands shaking a little. “Okay?” He hung up the phone. 

“I will do it, Dick.”

Moving fast, they picked up the key, ignoring roly-poly man’s leer. “Let him think what he wants,” Yvette said—and headed for the elevators. 

“But what will I tell the caller? What if I mess up on talking to them?”

”They don’t even know what you’re supposed to sound like. But practice for me. Say the word ‘yes’”.

“Yes.”

“Perfect. Whatever they want, tell them yes. They’ve got my partner hostage, and I don’t even know what they want, but tell them yes.” 

She nodded, biting her lip. 

“I’ll call to check in with you every fifteen minutes. Or as often as I can.”

They unlocked the door to 513 and both jumped as the phone rang, loud in the empty suite. 

Yvette raised her eyebrows.

Dick nodded.

“Yes,” she said into the receiver. “Okay.” She motioned for a pen, and Dick grabbed a ballpoint and some Ritz stationary from the suite’s writing desk. Yvette scribbled something on the paper, then stopped. “Oui. Okay.”

“That,” she said, hanging up, “was Nicky. You talked to Nicky?”

“Denise did.”

“Ah.” Her lip quirked up. “Nicky says the cabbie’s back and this is where he took your friend and those two men.” She held out the sheet of stationary. On it, in girlish looping cursive, were the words 1818 Rue de Matin. “The cabbie is named Philippe,” she said. “And he’s waiting downstairs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d love to hear that you are reading or still reading!


	17. 1818 Rue de Matin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick rises to the occasion. On his own terms.

Dick headed across the hall to room 512 and started stripping. He was going to this party, but he was going on his terms. Under the radar, in a way that’d be easier to slip in and case the joint. Not as Denise, and not as David, but as Dick Grayson. 

But since Dave needed to show up later, he stuck his mustache in the pocket of his tux, along with adhesive. After another minute’s thought, he also grabbed the briefcase he’d used as part of his disguise on Air Paris, dumped his textbooks out on the bed, and replaced them with some of the gear he used for Denise—the wig, the dress, the accessories. Never hurt to be prepared. Soon the goop was off his face, his hair was combed, and he was ready.

Philippe’s taxi made good time, and soon the DuMarier Estate loomed ahead, bigger and much more foreboding than it had been when Dick had smuggled himself into that garden party as a waiter, what? Two days ago? It was all starting to run together. 

He rolled down his window and took it in. The familiar green rolling lawn was dark and empty, the house an imposing silhouette against the glittering starry night sky, lights blazing from all of the lower-storey windows and some of the upstairs windows as well.

“Don’t go straight up to the door, s'il vous plaît.”

“Pas ici.”

Dick leaned forward in his seat. “Huh?”

“L'Italien dit—”

“Wait, who did? Can you show me?”

Philippe shrugged and steered the cab around the corner, heading for the rear of the mansion. 

“The Italian?”

“Oui.” 

“Blond? Bearded? Beat-up?” Dick pantomimed a beard and puffy, squinting eye.

“Oui.”

“You picked him up on the way?”

“Oui.”

“What did they talk about on the drive?”

Philippe shrugged again. “Rien.”

“Show me where you dropped them off.”

Phillipe maneuvered the cab down a long gravel drive. It ran parallel to Rue De Matin, but on the opposite side of the estate. It was deserted out here this far from the mansion, although you could hear the noise from the party, very muted.

“Ici.” Philippe pulled up in front of a dark little building. A van—no, ambulance was parked beside it. Moonlight lit the words ‘L’hôpital Saint Adelaide’ on the side. 

“À l'intérieur de la maison.” The cabbie jerked his head at the little house.

“You saw them go inside? That building?”

“Oui.”

Well, no one was in there now. Unless it was Bruce, tied up in the dark, waiting for help.

Dick dug out his wallet and paid the man, plus a healthy tip. “You’ll wait here? I’ll pay you to wait.”

The man nodded.

“Okay. I’m going in.”

From the exterior, the building looked like any other picturesque little French cottage. Like something from a postcard. Dick walked around the perimeter trying doors and windows, but everything was locked up tight and most of the windows were shuttered. Finally, he climbed in a flowerbed, pushing aside tulips and lilies to peer in a dark window, but it was way too dark, outside and in, to see much. Looked like an examination table, maybe some lab equipment. 

Dick jogged back to the cab and grabbed the briefcase he’d brought from the hotel. Pulling off his dinner jacket, he wrapped it around the thing and swung it at the window. The glass shattered, falling with a deadened tinkle into the flowerbed and onto the cottage floor. The air that surged out past him stank of chemicals: isopropyl alcohol and other acrid medicinal odors. Climbing through the window, he tripped over a lamp that had already been knocked to the floor. He flicked it on, leaving it where it lay. Glass crunched under his feet, breaking with a hollow, popping sound—this glass couldn’t be from the window. He looked down and yep, broken test tubes and vials. 

He was in some kind of examination room. And there had been a struggle. If they’d brought Bruce in here, he’d sure put up a good fight. Dick felt a surge of pride. Then saw the disheveled tray of surgical tools and the scalpels scattered on the floor near a tipped metal table. The thought of those tools in the hands of a man like Dr. Bernard—a Nazi war criminal—made him shudder. He couldn’t think about that and Bruce at the same time right now, so he tightened his jaw and looked for clues. 

The exam table had little leather straps, and he couldn’t help but notice one had been torn in half. He looked closer. Teeth marks. Somebody had gnawed through at least one of them. Could have been anybody, he reminded himself. Not necessarily Bruce. The Doctor was a madman.

When he turned, something jabbed him, stabbing through his shoe as he took his next step. Ow. He reached down and pulled a syringe from the shoe leather. Something was still inside the tube. He turned it, watching a few drops of a sickly greenish yellow substance pool, adhering to the sides like syrup. Not much, but he hoped whatever it was hadn’t gotten him. Or Bruce. 

He wished he had time and equipment to run real tests, but he settled for next best, breaking open the syringe with a little snap to sniff the contents. 

Almonds. It smelled like Alfred’s almond pound cake. He tipped it, let a few drops collect on the end of his index finger, then tentatively licked the stuff. Still no clue. On the floor under the table was another syringe. This one had the remains of a clear liquid, and he recognized its alliaceous, garlicky odor. Sodium Pentothal. Truth Serum. Uh-oh. Poor Bruce. 

If they’d even held him here. 

He reminded himself not to panic.

Although, looking at the damage, he almost hoped Bruce had been here. Because if it’d been Bruce, he’d sure given the bad guys a run for their money—suddenly Dick let out a tiny giggle. That was odd, because gosh, really. That was the last thing he wanted to do. Must be nerves. He focused on the task at hand. The far wall had a door, and it opened to a small office. On the desk was a typewriter—Smith Corona (old ribbon) and a phone. 

He picked it up and dialed the hotel. Yvette answered on the first ring. 

“Yes?”

“Yvette, it’s me, Dick.”

“Someone called,” she whispered, like she was the one breaking in to a creepy doctor’s office. “They said that—wait, I wrote it down exactement.” A second later she was back. “Okay. ‘They asked are you coming to the party?’” 

“And you said yes.”

“Oui. And then they asked if Mr. Wayne was going, too.”

“What?”

“I know, Dick! She said ‘I have what he is looking for. Bring cash.’”

“Wait, she?”

“Oui.”

Dick scrubbed his face with his hand. “Okay. Can you keep staying there, in case there’s another call?”

“Um, yes. Yes I can.”

“You know, Yvette—”

“Yes, Dick?”

“If anybody shows up across the hall, banging on our door or something? Don’t answer it.”

“Don’t worry, Dick.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Nicky won’t let me.” 

“He’s there now?”

“Mais oui. He is… helping.”

Dick had to smile himself. “I’ll call you again as soon as I can, Yvette. And thanks.”

“Vous êtes bienvenu, Dick. It’s very nice to have such a nice suite to… wait for phone calls in.”

Dick had the sudden urge to giggle again—weird—but instead he hung up, retrieved his jacket, shook out the bits of glass and slipped out the window he’d broken to get in. As he rounded the little building, he heard voices, arguing. Philippe and someone else. Then the sound of a car taking off. Great. There went his ride. Crouched in the bushes, he watched Philippe’s taxi drive away. Some servant waved his arms in good riddance and headed back up the small hill to the estate. 

He felt… funny. This was not good. Just that tiny dose of whatever was in that vial—good thing Bruce had been building up his resistance with incremental doses of chemicals they might encounter in the field. He’d felt almost this strange before, that one time, so… He shook himself like a dog to clear his head, then began the trek up the hill himself. 

As he got closer to the house, everything started to get brighter around him. Brighter, even though it was dark. Brighter and stranger. He focused on walking and physical sensations, like the dampness of the rolling yard’s dewy grass. The expanse was dotted by occasional partygoers in couples and groups of three or four, and he nodded to them as he passed, watching for familiar faces. Ahead, dozens of lit windows wavered in his vision, their shape flickering from rectangular to something rounder, more abstract, then thinning again. Orchestra music and sounds of talking and laughter engulfed him, and even before he was in the house, while he was out in the grass, he kind of startled a couple of times, thinking a sound from inside the house was happening at his elbow. 

Time to get a grip, Dick. There wasn’t anything to do for it now except to keep on going. Bruce depended on him and nobody was expecting Dick Grayson. They didn’t even know who Dick Grayson was, anyway. He was going to blend in, find out what he could and then kick some kidnapping Nazi butt. 

He straightened the lapels on his tuxedo jacket and squared his shoulders. Up the porch steps—he was entering from the rear of the house, just in case they were announcing guests who entered in front—through the open door and walking, with grace and poise, into the bright, loud lion’s den.


	18. Door to Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick infiltrates the doctor's lair.

Dick opened a door and found himself surrounded by chaos. Cooks and waiters and servants running in different directions, the clanging of pots and pans and clatter of silver and dishware, the sizzle and smell of food, voices shouting across a room. The kitchen was a long corridor, dark red walls and brilliant light shining down to bounce and sparkle on bright white tiles and gleaming chrome fixtures. 

People were yelling in French and Portuguese and some other language Dick didn’t know, shouting orders and directives and yelling that something or other was ready and something else needed to go on a burner. He followed the first guy he saw moving smoothly through the havoc. It was a kid in a waiter’s jacket with a tray of cups and saucers on his arm, gliding purposefully across the floor, damp with patches of mop water, weaving smoothly around scurrying cooks and kitchen staff and piles of dirty dishes. Dick tagged after him, passing though swinging double doors at the end of the kitchen, and emerged in an entirely different world as those doors closed behind him. 

The cacophony of the kitchen was replaced by strains of an orchestra playing the Blue Danube Waltz. The dining room he was standing in was pale blue, calm and orderly. He blinked at the two dozen coffee-sipping men and women scattered amongst tables of six or eight and the waiters clearing used dinner and dessert plates. 

It seemed a little like a dream. Dick drifted between tables, then through an archway, where the conversation was a swelling, insectile hum and the party was in full swing, packed with guests. At the far end of the room, a large ornate staircase led to the second story of the mansion. To his right was the orchestra—couples gliding across the dance floor: glittering men and beautiful women in long dresses turning like surreal clockwork to too-loud waltz music—and for a moment he had to just stare, taking in the action from the edge of the crowd. Throughout the rest of the room, both in large groups and clustered in small cozy alcoves, partygoers stretched as far as he could see… and Dick was suddenly intensely homesick. He and Bruce and Alfred always joked about how tedious the Foundation parties were, but they weren’t terrible or anything, they just kept him from being Robin for a little while. And at one of those parties, he never, never had to worry about Bruce. 

Queasy waves of panic lurched through his stomach. What if this wasn’t going to work? 

A waiter came by, tray in hand, and extended it towards him. Dick stood there dumbly for a minute, then went through the motions, helping himself to a tiny toast square topped with caviar; glistening black lumps making him feel sicker. He spotted a bare spot on a side table and was abandoning the canapé there as the orchestra’s song came to an end. 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” It was Dr. Bernard, who stepped to the center of the room. He had a glass in one hand and used a spoon to strike it, five times in succession. The crowd quieted somewhat. He did it again and a hush fell over the room. He smiled, the long scar along the side of his face crinkling, a memento of war violence oddly incongruous with his otherwise normal, even almost handsome, features and elegant tuxedo. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I know that all of our guests were not able to join us for the dinner portion of the evening.” He looked around, assessing his audience, and Dick wished he had shadows he could slip into, but he didn’t. Still, it was a very large group of people and he didn’t look conspicuous or anything, so he hoped for the best and wished he didn’t feel so weird. Sure, as Robin, along with Batman, he’d been exposed to and developed a tolerance for, plenty of chemicals, but he really shouldn’t have tasted whatever it was left in that syringe. Not even a single drop. Mentally, he kicked himself. But kicking himself wasn’t helping Bruce any, so he tried to focus on Dr. Bernard. 

“I simply wanted,” the man continued, “to take this opportunity to welcome any latecomers to our little soiree and make sure that everyone once again joined me in welcoming our distinguished guest, “Dr. Horace Vardian, head curator of the Gotham Museum of Natural History. Dr. Vardian?” 

Dr. Bernard motioned to an elderly, stooped man wearing old-fashioned glasses and Dick’s eyes widened. He knew the guy from field trips; plus the man had given a lecture on molecular structure to his organic chem class; and as Robin, he and Batman had consulted Dr. Vardian several times on cases and once about improving their own lab’s carbon-dating equipment. 

Dr. Vardian,” Dr. Bernard said, “has kindly consented to use his expertise to pinpoint the age, authenticity and value of several of Brazil’s greatest treasures.” 

The crowd applauded vigorously, not stopping until Dr. Bernard held up a hand for quiet.  
“Senhora Fortunato?” he asked, scanning the crowd. 

A plump older woman in a white evening gown stepped forward to join him. Dick recognized her from the Louvre. One of the exhibit’s sponsors. 

“As most of you know, tomorrow, after our farewell banquet, hosted by the lovely Senhora Fortunato and myself; the Treasures of the Amazon will be dismantled to travel to our next destination, Rome.” 

At the mention of Rome, another round of applause swept through the room. 

“And as you also know, we will take that opportunity—under the strictest of security measures, of course, to have our most important pieces—pieces such as ‘the Maiden’s Sacrifice,’ a necklace of rare beauty and mythic significance—scientifically appraised through the wonders of modern technology. And of course, this man’s expertise.” Bernard waved a hand toward Dr. Vardian in a kind of ‘voila’ gesture, and Dick had the déjà vu from his childhood, the remembered sensation of watching a ringmaster work a crowd. 

The onlookers went crazy, enthusiastically responding with clapping and accolades in several languages. 

Dr. Vardian, usually a rather shy man unless speaking about atoms and molecules and carbon dating, flushed a little—to the sparse roots of his gray hair. 

Poor man. He was a dupe set up to ruin Gotham for the commies and he didn’t even know it. Once he got a look at the necklace, he’d know it was a fake, and they’d figure out that the switcheroo had happened back home. 

“Dr. Vardian will give a lecture tomorrow at the conclusion of—” 

Dr. Bernard continued speaking, but all Dick heard was the hiss of the word “Dave!” in his ear. A hand closed on his upper arm, and then he was pulled through the crowd of people, jostling against them as Alessandro dragged him through a nearby archway and down a long hall. 

“Come here,” Alesandro said, his accent thick as he opened a door. It was a small study, dark wood and shelves of books, smaller than Bruce’s , and lit only by the greenish glow of a banker’s lap on an enormous carved mahogany desk. French doors opened onto a patio lined with rosebushes. Somewhere the orchestra started up again and Dick could hear the music wafting in, faint in the warm evening breeze. Something modern, this time. “The Look of Love.” 

“I am so glad to see you!” Alessandro grabbed Dick by both shoulders. “I saw you across the room and my first thought was that you found me! You came to see me after our little…” He blinked, and even though he was an inch or so taller than Dick, he somehow managed to duck his head enough to look up at him, eyes dark and smoky, from under ridiculously long eyelashes. “After our little rendezvous at the Louvre.” 

“No, I—” 

“But then I realized you must be here with Mr. Wayne. Just like you were at the museum with him but pretended not to be together. You are his friend, are you not?” 

Dick didn’t really like the tone Alessandro used for the word ‘friend’. “Wait, what?” 

“You’re here. So Mr. Wayne must be here.” Alessandro nodded, like everything made perfect sense. “Who I need to talk to. Me and my sister. Where is he?” 

“See, that’s the thing—” Dick’s words felt heavy in his mouth, the ‘th’ sound hard to form. “I came by myself because—” 

“He has gone ahead then, after all?” 

“What are you talking about? Have you seen him tonight?” 

“Wayne? No.” Alessandro waved his hand. “Baron DiMedici was correct?” 

“Correct about what?” 

“You know, Rome! Mr. Wayne has gone ahead, no?” 

“When did you hear him say—” 

“Earlier tonight. I didn’t believe him but it’s okay.” Alessandro bobbed his head, nodding to himself, running fingers through his dark, wavy hair. “It’s okay.” 

“What’s okay?” 

“Lorena has a way to get it through customs. We will pass the goods to him in Rome.” 

“What goods?” 

“The necklace,” Alessandro whispered. “The real one. We have it hidden—” 

Behind Dick’s back, the doorknob rattled. He whirled toward the sound. 

“I locked it,” Alessandro said. “Whoever it is, is probably looking for the lavatory.” 

They stared at the door, but the knob only rattled, once more. As whoever it was let go. 

Alessandro sighed with relief. “Do not worry, Dave. I will keep you company tonight. You will not even miss your Mr. Wayne.” 

Alessandro leaned close and for god’s sake—what? He was trying to kiss him again, Dick realized as the boy closed his eyes. 

Dick pushed him away. Not unkindly, but with purpose. A hand, flat on they guy’s chest, noting with some part of his mind that he could feel Alessandro’s heartbeat through his shirt. “Look, my name’s Dick, okay? Dick Grayson.” 

“Mmm.” Alessandro didn’t seem terribly surprised, or terribly ready to stop putting moves on him. He reached for Dick’s hand on his chest, and put his own over it. “I thought it might be. We looked you up, Lorena and I.” He stroked Dick’s hand and wrist gently, like petting a kitten. 

Dick yanked his hand away. “What?” 

Alessandro put his arm around Dick, and said, rather conspiratorially, “My sister and I looked you up. Mr. Wayne, too. We looked up American newspapers, society sections? We needed to see if you really had enough money to buy the necklace. Do you just like to sometimes dress up in disguise and pretend you some else—are you okay? You look… strange.” 

Dick’s mind reeled, both with whatever drug he’d stupidly ingested and Alessandro himself.. What—how did Alessandro and Lorena get the necklace? They must have stolen it from Dr. Bernard. What did they want the money for? “No, I’m okay, I’m okay, but tell my why—” 

Alessandro’s grip on his shoulder grew tighter. “Please let me kiss you again?” 

“Alessandro, no.” Dick tried to shrug him off. “I need to know what’s going on.” 

“The last time was not very good, I know. I was rushed.” 

“Look, Alessandro, it’s not you.” Dick pulled away. “Bruce is in trouble and—” 

“I want to be with someone I want to be with. Just one time, Dick. Someone close to my age and handsome and kind—not someone old and cruel—” 

Dick felt like a broken record. “Wait, what?” 

Alessandro’s expression contorted. His handsome, golden-skinned face fell and Dick saw pain in his eyes, sadness around his mouth. “Did you not know?” 

“What’s going on, Alessandro?” 

“I have to get away from him,” the boy said, his eyes wide and pleading. 

“Who do you need to get away from, Alessandro? Why can’t you?” 

“From Dr. Bernard. From Baron DiMedici. It… is complicated.” 

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying? If somebody’s hurting you, Alessandro, or making you do something you don’t want to do...” Dick said, trying to wrap his mind around the thoughts forming, how he—Dick Grayson, Robin—helped people in trouble, and gosh, sounded like Alessandro was in trouble. Bad trouble. “If somebody’s hurting you, I can help you. I _will_ help you. We will make you safe—”

“Soon. It is not as easy as you might think, but it is soon. If we have the money my sister and I can go somewhere. Start new.” Alessandro closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, the sad look was gone. Mostly. “I do not want to talk about this with you, Dick. You are so handsome. So handsome and elegant and please…” He reached for Dick’s face, hand lifting his chin. “You are too beautiful to talk of something so ugly. Let us—” Alessandro bent closer. 

Dick had time to register three things, all almost exactly at the same time: the feel of soft, warm lips on his, the sound of footsteps behind him, coming from the patio, and the rattle of a key turning in the lock on the door.


	19. Center of Attention

Dick had time to register three things, all almost exactly at the same time: the feel of soft, warm lips on his, the sound of steps behind him, coming from the patio, and the simultaneous sound of a key turning in the lock on the door. 

After that, everything happened at once. From behind Alessandro, the hall door opened, revealing one of the Doctor’s bodyguards—the bullnecked one with the buzz cut. Jones, if Dick recalled correctly. From behind Dick, another man moved, Di Medici, slinging an arm around his neck, liquor and ice sloshing from the man’s cocktail as he wrapped him in a clumsy headlock. 

Whipping his elbow back—reacting from years of experience and training—Dick connected with his assailant’s nose, heard the satisfying crunch of cartilage and bone as the man sagged against him. Dick turned in time to see Di Medici crumple to the floor, the bandage over his nose from Bruce’s earlier beating in the basement of the Louvre slowing staining red. So much for the baron. 

The bodyguard’s hand jerked from the pocket of his dinner jacket, bringing with it a small pistol. “The doctor told me to watch out for someone like you. Should have kept a closer eye on Al, here.” He winked at Alessandro and Alessandro’s whole body flinched. 

“Now, if you’ll both come with me…” 

Alessandro’s eyes were huge and dark. “Please, Jones.” 

The bodyguard’s eyes flicked to him. “Not this time, kid. We’ll let the Doctor decide what to do.” He edged toward a door on the far side of the room and opened it, revealing a dark staircase. “After you, boys.” 

Shoulders slumping, Alessandro started up the stairs. Dick followed him, bodyguard at his heels, until, halfway up, hands braced on the railing, Dick donkey-kicked back, sending bullneck Jones reeling. Dick turned in time to see the thug tumble backwards, his head hitting the wall at the bottom of the stairs. 

The guy didn’t move. 

Scared, just a little, Dick felt for a pulse, and found it. Good. 

“Come on, Alessandro,” Dick said. “We’re getting out of here.” 

They closed the door on the Jones, and then, on second thought, opened it again. Di Medici was still knocked out, and together, Dick and Alessandro dragged him into the stairwell too. And locked the door. 

Dick started to head for the patio, but Alessandro stopped him. “It’s walled,” he said. 

“How high’s the wall?” Dick started, sure he could scale it, but then thought it through again. Alessandro wasn’t an acrobat. He grabbed the guy’s hand and headed into the hallway. Now all they had to do was run the gauntlet of the party, maybe get out the back way, through the kitchen.  
Dick pulled Alessandro through the busiest part of the ballroom, moving fast. “Dick!” a feminine voice called with a Portuguese accent. “Dick Grayson!” 

It was Lorena. She grabbed him, whispering close in his ear. “Dance with me, now. I have information for you.” 

Dick watched Alessandro, huddling at the edge of the dance floor. Alessandro was okay, for now. Jones and Di Medici were out cold and behind a locked door. As for Dick, Lorena had him in her grasp, and crazy as it was to stick around, Dick had to listen. What did she know about Bruce? Did she need to be rescued from this place, too? He drew her in tight, as the orchestra began to play “Hernando’s Hideaway.” A tango. 

“What information?” Dick said, hissing under his breath, drawing the girl close. 

“I need to talk to Bruce,” Lorena whispered back, as Dick leg brushed hers and she followed suit. Dick was leading, this time, and worried as he was, he still let his body go through the motions—pure muscle memory, thank you, Miss Mitzi. He placed his shoe beside Lorena's executing a perfect tango step, his leg guiding hers, a sharp and point and counterpoint. 

“Where is he?” she said. 

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Dick whispered in her ear, before lowering her for a dip, “And how do you know who I am?” 

Lorena leaned back, letting her hand practically graze the marble floor before springing up again. “I know you from your pictures. Where is your lover?” 

“He’s not my lover.” 

“But where is he?” 

“I’d hoped you could tell me.” 

They shifted, hands still clasped, moving in tandem, parallel to each other before coming apart again. “I do not know. My step-father must have... I don’t know,” she said, and bit her lip, not saying another word. 

“Dr. Bernard must have done what? I need to know where he is!” 

“But I do not know! 

Slowly, Dick began to sense a change in the room. Somehow, the two of them, Dick and Lorena, had become the center of attention. Even the other dancers had moved to the edges of the dance floor, and everyone was watching, their eyes full of appreciation. Great. That was the last thing he needed. Still, there was nothing to do but keep dancing, now. Nothing to do but give it a little more flourish.

Dick executed a perfect turn, spinning the girl. “Lorena,” he hissed, when he once more held her close, legs and steps in sensuous alignment. “Alessandro told me some things. I think you’re both in trouble. We’re going to get out of here, and I’m going to find Bruce. Come with us.” 

“I cannot leave yet, Dick,” she said, as they came together and spun apart. “In Rome!” she whispered. “In Rome I will leave. Not now. Alessandro must wait, too.” 

They were close now, her body pulled up tight against his. Dick spoke quickly and under his breath. “There’s no time for waiting. Not for any of us. I have to find Bruce, and I’m going to do it.” He clasped her hand, hard, as he spun her. “If you’re not going to come with me now...” 

They were far from each other for a moment, in mid-turn, and sadly, she shook her head. He brought her through the turn and into a low dip just as the music ended. 

The crowd applauded wildly. 

“I will come back for you.” Dick whispered as they bowed, then squeezed her hand and let her go and moved toward Alessandro, still waiting on the edges of the dance floor, eyes wild and darting, looking for danger. 

Dick tried to fade into the crowd. “This way,” he said, as he jerked his head Alessandro, heading for the kitchen. They’d almost made it to the dining area when a voice called out, “Dick Grayson!” as he hit the last archway. 

Dick paused, almost turned toward the sound, then tried to correct, pretend he hadn’t heard—but it was too late. Dr. Vardian’s hand was on his arm. “Why Dick, what a pleasant surprise!” 

Sighing, Dick took the old man’s hand and shook it. Searched the crowd behind Dr. Vardian. So far so good. “Good to see you, Dr. Vardian.” Dick knew his speech was too fast and he was nodding, quick and repeatedly, but time was running out. “Listen, I’ve got to take care of something—” 

“Whatever can you need to tend to?” said a thickly-accented German voice. A hand clapped him on the back, then snaked his arm around to squeeze his shoulder, and Dick found himself, for the first time, directly face to face with the Nazi doctor. The livid scar that ran from jowl to temple curved as the man smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Has Mr. Wayne wandered off again?” He clicked his tongue, winking at Dr. Vardian. “That American playboy is a scoundrel!” 

Dr. Vardian frowned. “He’s a wonderful philanthropist, really—” 

Dick tuned him out, wincing as he watched baron Di Medici approach. He should have hit the guy harder. 

Dr. Bernard scowled at Di Medici, probably because of his now-bloodied bandage. Dick hoped his nose was broken. 

“Haven’t gotten a chance to see Mr. Wayne this evening,” Vardian was saying, and Dick realized he was saying it to him, that everyone was staring at him now: Vardian, Alessandro, Dr. Bernard, and Dominic Di Medici. 

Before Dick could even open his mouth, though, Di Medici butted in, in his perfect Italian. “Wayne is quite the philanthropist. He’s gone ahead to Rome to ready things for exhibit’s next stop.” 

“Ah,” said Dr. Bernard. “In all the excitement of our festivities—and you, Dr. Vardian, our guest of honor—I completely forgot. So it is! It’s a shame that he’ll miss the final Parisian soiree tomorrow.” Bernard swirled his drink. “And of course, the presentation of your findings on the exhibit and the age of the jewels.” 

“Remember how Wayne asked you to keep an eye on the kid, here, Dr. Bernard?” Dominic added, narrowing his eyes at Dick. 

“Indeed,” Dr. Bernard said, nodding. “The boys,” he motioned toward Dick and Alessandro, “his and mine… hit it off so well that I agreed to let his ward, is it? Stay the night with us.” He smiled, toothy and feral. “In loco parentis, as it were.” 

Dick wanted to tell Alessandro to run for it, get out. But Alessandro wasn’t making eye contact, staring at the floor. And when Dominic saw Dick try to get the kid’s attention, he threw his arm over Alessandro’s shoulder. Alessandro cringed but still didn’t look up. 

The orchestra was playing Moon River, and it was too loud. Dick tried to think. He opened his mouth. “But—” 

“My dear…” 

“Dick,” Dominic said. 

“My dear Dick, what have you been into?” Bernard winked at the adults, and nostrils flaring, he made an exaggerated sniffing sound. “You boys haven’t been in the liquor, have you?”  
He reached out and took Dick’s collar between his index finger and thumb, stroking the wet spot on his tux where Dominic’s drink had spilled when he’d tried to throttle him. 

“What, no—” Dick said, still eyeing the exits. 

Bernard’s hand moved to Dick’s face, touched his cheek. “And you’re looking a little red-eyed, too. Boys will be boys.” 

Dick shoved his hand away. 

The man slung his arm around him and Dick felt the tiniest of pricks against his side, under his jacket. A needle. “Now, now. I told Mr. Wayne that I’d take good care of you, Dick. And it’s very, very late. Excuse me, gentlemen.” Bernard looked back, over his shoulder. “Coming, Alessandro?” 

He pulled Dick a few steps away from the group, turning toward the large, ornate staircase. At the third stair he stopped. “Now wave to Dr. Vardian, boys, that’s right.” 

“Dr Vardian?” Bernard called across the loud, crowded room. “The boys are retiring for the evening.” A few other faces looked up besides the scientist’s, but they took very little notice. A sea of rhythmically twirling pastel and jewel tones spread across the ballroom as the mass of people returned to their dancing, laughing and highballs. 

Bernard’s whisper was a deadly hiss in Dick’s ear. “As you may have realized, I’ve got a syringe pressed against you. If you refuse to cooperate, I’ll be happy to use it, and no one will be the wiser. You’ll simply appear to have overindulged to the point of passing out—and in my arms, no less.”


	20. Pretty Potions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm changing up some of the tags to this story. I may keep them this way or change them back. I am a wildcard.

The room Bernard took them to was on the far side off the mansion’s second storey. 

“Take the key from my pocket, please,” Bernard said to Alessandro, the hand with the syringe squeezing Dick’s hip, way too familiar.

Alessandro opened the door. Pushing Dick inside, Bernard switched on the light. A large sitting room dominated by a fireplace and antique desk opened onto an even larger bedroom, done in dark fabrics and heavy furniture. 

“Sit down, Master Grayson.” Bernard motioned to a pair of wingback chairs, in front of a fireplace, separated by a small table. The Doctor held up the syringe he’d used to force Dick upstairs, tapping it, and Dick watched air bubbles surge to the top of the viscous green liquid.

“Alessandro? The restraints, please.” 

Alessandro’s eyes shot through with pain. 

“Both sets.”

Slowly he moved to a small chest of drawers on the other side of the room, near the four-poster bed. 

What he brought back was… restraints, though not the kind Dick was used to. Black leather cuffs, each about four inches wide, complete with straps, buckles and clips. There were D rings on the sides, and a heavy chain, approximately ten inches long, connected each pair together. 

“Put them on him.” To Dick, Bernard said, “Hands behind your back, please. Turn around.” 

Alessandro’s eyes were huge and haunted. “I’m sorry, Dick,” he whispered as he wrapped the cuffs around his wrists. 

“Fasten the straps and take up the slack, please, Alessandro. We’ll save the slack for… later.” 

Alessandro clipped something behind his back, and Dick’s wrists were snapped tightly together, and while he could feel the weight of the length of chain between them, hanging, there was no give. 

“And the ankles.”

Alessandro bent at Dick’s feet to comply. 

“Sit down, Alessandro.” Bernard eased himself into the chair opposite Dick and tapped his syringe again. “This is a product of my own devising, young Mr. Grayson. Whether or not we use it—and how much, or even whether we try something else… depends entirely on you.” He set it on the small table between the two chairs, then leaned back in his seat, steepling his fingers. “We want something you have. And I believe we may have something you want.”

“Where’s Bruce?”

“Ah, yes. Perhaps we can make an exchange, then.”

“Let me see him.”

“Where’s the necklace? The Maiden’s Sacrifice?”

Dick looked at Alessandro, but Alessandro’s eyes were on the floor. “We don’t have it,” Dick said.

“Oh, but I think you do. I think it’s only too convenient that Wayne sent an associate to approach me about the item, even as it was being stolen from me.”

“It wasn’t—”

“And apparently, you two have other operatives in Paris.”

“Huh?” 

“Your…what shall we call him, Mr. Grayson? Your… mentor? Guardian? Friend?”

“Bruce,” Dick said, gritting his teeth. 

The doctor nodded. “He said some very interesting things when I pumped him full of sodium pentothal, Dick. All kinds of things…”

Dick tried to buy some time. “Like what?”

“About the people he has helping him. Denise, Dick, David… or is it Dave? Such a lot of ‘D’s, don’t you think?”

Dick focused on his breathing. Tested the cuffs. No lock to pick, no give, but if the guy would leave him alone for a minute…

Dr. Bernard reached out and fondled his knee. “People say all kinds of things under duress, Dick. I wonder what you’d say…”

Dick tried to yank away from the doctor’s touch. Standing there, cuffed at wrists and ankles, he had to struggle for a second, but then he regained his balance; stood firm. “You better not have hurt him!” 

“So devoted. You almost lost your balance, there, young man. Alessandro, bring the chair from behind the desk. Let poor Dick rest his legs.”

Alessandro did as he was told, and Dick awkwardly sank into the desk chair.

“There, isn’t that better?” said Dr. Bernard. “Just the three of us, in front of the fire. Some of are old friends, like Alesandro and I.” He smiled. It was not a nice smile. “But you and I, we’ll be new friends, won’t we, Dick?” His eyes crawled up and down Dick’s body.

“Tell me where Bruce is, and I’ll give you the necklace.”

“Really? Where is it?”

“Tell me where Bruce is!”

“I don’t even think you know where the necklace is. But Wayne does, and we’ll get it out of him. I’ve still got twenty-four hours before Dr. Vardian’s presentation.” Bernard squeezed his knee, hard. “You want to play games, don’t you, Dick? Perhaps we can have a little fun. Alessandro knows about fun, don’t you, Alessandro?”

Alessandro shrugged, not looking up. He wasn’t making eye contact with either of them.

“Bring me my black bag, please.”

Alessandro shuddered, but brought a black doctor’s bag from behind the big oak desk. It was monogrammed with the initials PLB just under the clasp, which the doctor popped. The bag opened to display a row of syringes on each side. He reached into the thing, but didn’t pull out one of the syringes. Instead, he took out a jar of some clear liquid. And a rag. 

“You boys have created a momentary dilemma for me,” Bernard said. “You see, I need to go back to my party.” He opened the jar and the scent of chloroform leached up into the room. He put the rag on the mouth of the jar and tipped it, soaking the cloth. “So you boys are going to take a little nap. Good to rest up for the fun we’ll have together.” 

The jangle of a phone made them all jump. Dr. Bernard seized the receiver. “I’m not to be disturbed—” 

Whomever it was at the end of the other line gave him an earful, though. The doctor’s eyebrows rose. “I see. I’ll be there directly.”

Footsteps sounded, outside the door. Then it opened, and it was Dominic, holding a struggling Lorena by the arm. 

“You can’t keep doing this to us,” she said. “You’ve got to stop!”

The doctor’s eyes narrowed. Shut the door now, Dominc.” He said. “And bring Lorena over here, by the fire.”

Bernard smiled as Dominic brought the girl close. “Good girl.” He lifted his hand, the one still holding the drugged rag. “But now it’s time for you to shut up.” He clamped the rag over her nose and mouth. She fought him, but sagged in Dominic’s arms after only a moment.

“Put her on the bed. We have a problem.”

“What is it?” Di Medici dragged her across the room and threw her on the bed like a sack of groceries. 

The doctor cocked his head. “It seems Mr. Wayne has escaped.”

A thrill rushed through Dick, and even Alesandro lifted his head, finally making eye contact.

Bernard must have caught it, because he locked his cruel eyes on Dick’s. “Don’t celebrate too early. We still have you. And a man drugged out of his mind roaming three acres in the middle of the country, surrounded by security, won’t get far. It is simply a matter of catching up with him. Hopefully, before the dogs do.” He snapped his doctor’s bag shut. “I’ll make my goodbyes and collect my rifle, Dominic.”

Alessandro’s dark almond eyes were huge, wet, darting from Bernard and back to Dick. 

“Tell your friend what kind of a shot I am, Alessandro.”

Alessandro shook his head. 

“Nine sharpshooter medals, Mr. Grayson. In an embarrassment of riches, I also have you. A very good bargaining chip. I sincerely doubt Wayne will be able to resist. You’ll be my hostage until we get Mr. Wayne back, and then we’ll make him tell us where he’s hidden the jewels. I have so many ideas of ways to make him talk.” 

The man’s tone was pure evil. It sent a terrible, sinuous fear running up and down Dick’s spine, despite himself.

The doctor turned to Di Medici. “Load the boy up in the ambulance, Dominic. I’m taking him with me shortly.” He glanced at the clock above the fireplace. “I must make my goodbyes. Have him ready to go in twenty minutes. And don’t look so sad, Dominic. I’ve leaving Alessandro here for you to play with.”

The door slammed behind the man as he left, and Dick started trying to telegraph to Alessandro an idea: grab the syringe off the table beside him, and somehow, plunge it into the baron.

He couldn’t signal Alessandro long, though, eyes shooting back and forth from the baron to the needle, because as soon as the door closed behind the doctor, the baron turned his smarmy eyes on Dick. He’d changed the bandage on his nose, but other than that, he’d never looked so much like a blond Satan. 

Alessandro shivered. He reached an arm out to run a trembling hand over Dick’s leg, and Dick shivered too. 

Alessandro took a deep breath. “Too bad, Dominic,” he said, “that we can’t even… how do you say… take advantage?” he sighed, and rising with a languid, catlike movement, climbed into the chair, on top of Dick.

Dick gasped, the movement awkward and almost painful, bound as he was.

Alessandro sighed. “We have a few minutes, Dominic. Wouldn’t you…” he leaned close, then pressed his lips to Dick’s, only for a moment. “Wouldn’t you like a little taste, Dominic?” 

Dominic made a weird groaning noise, and Alessandro kissed Dick again, snuggling a little against him.

Dick gulped. Alessandro’s hands were moving, between the two of them. Moving to his lap—no, to his wrists, behind his back. Alessandro didn’t have the key, but he could untie the straps. And if he did… that would just leave the chain, between the cuffs. And heck, Robin could fix that in a jiffy.

Alessandro kissed him again, soft as a butterfly. “Pretty, isn’t it?” Alessandro whispered, turning his face to the baron.

Dominic nodded, and Alessandro put more into the next kiss. This time, Dick kissed back. Dominic stared at the two boys, watching like he’d die if he dragged his eyes away. 

Dick got it.

Alessandro licked across Dick’s mouth and Dick parted his lips, moaning as he let Alessandro stick his tongue inside. He sucked on Alessandro’s lower lip, and Alessandro made a little whimpering noise when Dick gently nipped where it was fullest.

He sucked a little harder, then pushed his tongue between Alessandro’s lips. It felt really weird, but it was for a good cause. For Bruce. Their teeth clacked together on the next kiss, but then they found a rhythm that worked—gentle and soft, but the sounds they made, all for Di Medici’s benefit, were almost way over the top—almost like the sounds Dick had heard coming from the movie at that x-rated theater Batman and Robin had busted that one time.

One of the straps was tougher than the others, so while Alessandro worked on it, they let their tongues tangle wildly, wet and messy as they could, but it backfired. 

Dominic yanked Alessandro from Dick’s lap and leaned in to kiss Dick himself.

Alessandro’d done enough, though. Dick’s hands sprung up just in time to wrap the Baron’s throat in the chain that held the two cuffs together. 

Dominic’s eyes flew wide and he sputtered and choked. Dick surged forward with a head butt, smack in the middle of the Baron’s face. If his nose wasn’t broken now, he’d be a monkey’s uncle.

“Yes!” Alessandro cried, grabbing the syringe from the small table and plunging it into the meat of Dominic’s shoulder. 

The baron’s eyes fluttered closed and he fell backwards, landing in a heap on the floor. 

“Hurry!” Alessandro darted to a nightstand and returned with keys. When they got the restraints off Dick, Alessandro started putting them on the baron, while Dick ran to Lorena, still on the bed, and tried to wake her up. It was no use. She wasn’t dead, but she was knocked out cold. 

“Help me,” Alessandro said, working to secure Di Medici. “With this stuff is first the sleep or truth or both things, but then, they make the noise and commotion, sometimes. Alucinações—hallucinations. We have to tie him up or he will probably tear down this room… Wait—”

Alessandro went back to the chest of drawers and returned with a strange looking contraption. It had a ball attached to a strap, and after they’d cuffed the unconscious baron, Alessandro buckled it around Di Medici’s head so that the ball fit into his mouth, effectively gagging the guy. 

Together they shoved Baron Dominic Di Medici under the big four-poster bed. 

“What are we going to do now, Dick?” Alessandro was looking at Dick like Dick was some kind of hero. No, Alessandro was looking at him the way people always looked at Robin. 

Despite everything else, it made Dick smile. “Not sure, Alessandro. But I bet, between the two of us, we can figure out something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm feeling a little like I'm posting into a void again. If you're reading, consider leaving me a note! I hope that you are enjoying the story!


	21. Garçon Courageux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick goes bravely forward, into the darkness.

Dick knew two things: it was safer for Alessandro to stay behind, and Dick’s sense of time was off tonight. He didn’t feel nearly as out-of-whack as he did when he’d tasted the drug, but it had to be later than planned before Dr. Bernard and Jones, the bodyguard—cursing Dick for the pounding he got when Dick kicked him down the stairs—checked to see if Di Medici had loaded Dick up in their vehicle.

In the back of the ambulance marked “L’hôpital Saint Adelaide—which looked a lot like a blue and white station wagon with a cherry light on top—Dick played dead. Or at least knocked out. With Alessandro’s help, he’d put on a fresh set of wrist and ankle restraints, mocked up to look like they were actually restraining something. They’d also taken the chloroform rag, smelly but not to the point of real damage, and tucked it into the back of the vehicle to seal the deal.

It worked, at least for the moment.

Jones climbed behind the wheel, Dr. Bernard into the passenger seat and the ambulance took off.

Bumping around, rolling a little, Dick listened to the siren Jones switched on whenever he thought they weren’t booking fast enough, stared at the ceiling of the derelict ambulance, and tried to figure out what to do when they got to their destination, to Bruce—or where he’d last been seen, anyway.

He could tell by the steadily lessening streetlights and fading traffic noise when eventually they reached the edge of the city, moonlight limning thick tree lines on either side of the road.

A few miles later it began to rain, not very hard, but steady, with rumbles of low thunder and occasional flashes of lighting. Finally, after what seemed like anywhere from, gosh, Dick timing was off tonight, and he wasn’t even sure how long—forty-five minutes? An hour? The vehicle slowed to a stop, pulling alongside some kind of guardhouse or entrance gate.

Jones rolled down his window. Wet, cool air poured into the car, along with a gruff voice. “Good news, Dr. Bernard,” the voice said. Only he said it in French, while Dick translated mentally. “Just collected our runaway guest.”

“Excellent,” Bernard said, also in French. “We’ll see if Mr. Wayne is ready to tell us what we want to know. And of course, I’ll see who is responsible for this slip-up while I’m here tonight. You weren’t in on it, were you?”

“No sir,” the voice said. “But I helped pick him up.”

“You’ve corralled him securely, this time, haven’t you?”

Then the voice again. “Don’t worry, he’s not going to be a problem for you for a long time. We hobbled him.”

Hobbled. A wave of nausea washed over Dick.

“He’s waiting for you in storage shed number three.”

The doctor grunted acknowledgement, Jones rolled up his window, and the van continued on for about another five or ten minutes, changing road surfaces twice before pulling to a stop.

“Bring in the boy,” Bernard said, grabbing his case from where it had rested, beside Dick’s “unconscious” body.

Car doors slammed and the back of the ambulance opened and Dick, still bound in his fake bonds (although one of them, the strap wrapped around his wrists, had come undone, so he held his wrists together and hoped he was fooling them), got hoisted up in a fireman’s carry, slung over Jones’ shoulder. Dick squinted through mostly closed eyes, rain pattering down on his back. Two buildings were visible: Two hundred yards away, a two-story building silhouetted against the growing storm, a building that had to be Saint Adelaide hospital—and much closer, visible only when Jones turned: a corrugated metal building marked only with the number “3.”

Dr. Bernard opened the door and flicked on a light switch.

A storage shed. Windowless and dim. Concrete floor and shelves of medical supplies: bandages, bedpans, aspirin and ointment, gauze and tape.

The doctor gestured to a leaning stack of folded collapsible wheelchairs, and his bodyguard pulled one out, opened it up and dropped Dick into it. Dick held his wrists together tightly, "bound" behind his back, and continued to play possum.

The building was silent except the rain and the roof, the squeak of his wheelchair’s left wheel, and the doctor’s steps ahead, leading them to the darkest part of the room. This end of the storage shed, past the rows of paper products and rubber catheter tubing and more bedpans, was a makeshift office. A metal desk, a phone, some file cabinets. Clipboards with inventory and order lists. Jones rolled Dick closer, following behind Bernard, and Dick couldn’t make out much besides the rows of supplies and equipment until the doctor switched on a light for this end of the building. And there, hanging under the bare glow of a single fluorescent fixture, chained to a pipe, was Bruce.

Dick’s heart skipped into a wild hammer. He tried to keep his face blank, his eyes closed enough to look unconscious, but… it was horrible.

They’d strung a chain from some pipes overhead, then manacled Bruce’s wrists to the chains, so that his arms were pulled up, extended above him. Bruce’s head hung to his chest, and Dick wasn’t sure if he was even conscious. They’d stripped him to his boxers and undershirt and his arms and legs were covered with bruises and scratches. The worst thing of all, though, was the way his whole body canted, even in the chains, leaning sharply to his right side. All of his weight slanted that way. Because his left leg, just about mid-calf, where everything should be straight and balanced and normal looking? Wasn’t straight at all.

A huge bruise, and at least the bone wasn’t jutting through, but either his tibia or fibula was… off, there. His ankle and foot hung down all wrong. They’d hobbled him, all right. Bruce wasn’t going anywhere. His leg was broken.

The guard rolled Dick closer. Dick continued to pretend that he was unconscious. Outside, the rain picked up, pinging against the metal roof of the shed.

Dr. Bernard put his black bag on the desk, next to a pile that had to be Bruce’s clothes, and opened it up. He signaled Jones to stop and thrust a hand into Dick’s rain-damp hair to yank his head back and wave smelling salts under his nose.

Dick blinked, pretended to come to—groggily. He blinked, straightening up his head. “What’s happened to me?”

At the sound of Dick’s voice, Bruce’s head slowly lifted from his chest, and Dick’s heart broke. It’s not that his face was as bad as his leg, but seeing Bruce like that, drugged and gagged and beaten, blood caked along his forehead—it wasn’t anything he’d ever be okay with seeing, is all. Batman got beat up all the time, sure. But Batman shouldn’t—Bruce shouldn’t ever be… ever be beaten and stripped and drugged and hobbled so badly that he couldn’t even get out of a storage shed, chained to some pipes under a bare-bulb light fixture. He shouldn’t.

Hand still in Dick’s hair, Bernard pulled him up far enough that he bounced a little in his seat. Dick hoped he couldn't see the errant, untied strap flapping as he fell back again and Bernard put his hand on Dick's shoulder and squeezed. The man's voice was a nasty whisper, directed at Bruce. “Got your boy, Bruce,” he said.

Bruce’s left eye was swollen shut, but Bruce’s right eye was open, though Dick wasn’t sure how well it was focusing. He tried to stay calm. He told himself he’d be worried if he, Dick, was really drugged, really tied up, was really helpless. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t so helpless at all.

“Such an injury, Mr. Wayne.” Bernard bent to inspect his calf. “I’m sorry my men were so… enthusiastic about beating you. Did you enjoy your tour of the property?” He prodded Bruce’s injury with rough fingers.

Bruce shuddered and when Dick winced in sympathy, watching Bernard don rubber gloves. Why was he doing that and what—what did Bruce say his real name was? Because Dr. Bernard looked every inch the evil scientist he must have been during the war. A Nazi, conducting experiments on his victims. The doctor had his eyes trained on Dick, watching to see how he responded to his mistreatment of Bruce.

Bruce wasn’t watching him, though. Above the dirty gag in his mouth, his eyes were on Dick, and Dick hoped, harder than he ever hoped anything ever, that Bruce knew he had a plan.

Now he only had to figure out exactly what that plan was, beyond just ‘Get Bruce the heck out of here.’ He inventoried his possible arsenal. At ten o’clock on the desk, heavy black phone. At high noon, syringes in the doctor’s bag. And supplies on the shelf just behind him, to his right. Behind him, Jones caught hold of his shoulders, forcing him to keep his gaze straight ahead. Dick did, and went back to planning. Two men. How could he take them both down? Dick bided his time; hoped he had time to stop whatever Dr. Bernard was about to do.

“We could leave this filthy space, too, Mr. Wayne” the doctor said. “Go up to my apartment at the hospital. Clean sheets, respite for your aching arms, Bruce. I’d even put a cast on your leg; let it dry while I showed your boy my etchings.” He pulled a scalpel from a small leather case and toyed with it, trying the blade. “I’m going to take your boy—let him experience what I mean by “take,” regardless, Bruce. Seems like a fair penalty for the Maiden’s Sacrifice.”

Bruce’s chains rattled as he shifted against the bonds, fighting. “No,” he managed to grit out from behind his gag. “Not Dick.”

“Hmm,” The doctor said. “It’s not as though you’re in any kind of position to argue.” He traced the scalpel along Bruce’s temple. The dull side, so far, but Dick suddenly pictured Bruce with the same scar that ran up the side of the Nazi’s face and shivered. Hurry up and get out of here, Jones. He thought. Guy must be almost to the door by now.

The doctor’s scalpel stroked along Bruce’s cheek, then slid under his gag. “Would you give me back what is mine?”

Slowly, Bruce nodded.

With one deft swipe, Dr. Bernard sliced through the gag and it fell to the floor. “You said you don’t have it.”

Bruce’s voice was hoarse and ragged. “No, I—” He swallowed. “Lying.”

“Then? Or now?”

“You can have anything but Dick—”

“It won’t be you doing… the anything.” Bernard held up a syringe, made a production of tapping it. “Dick here will do very nicely. Anything I want, in the end. Anything.”

“Nothing. He’ll do n—”

“He will, though. Jones, collect the men responsible for letting Mr. Wayne get free. I’ll want to deal with them before I enjoy myself with the boy. Have them waiting in my office.” He smiled; an ugly smile. “And after that, why don’t you make sure all of my patients are safely sedated for the evening and ensconced in their rooms. Wouldn’t want them to see a boy getting wheeled up to my quarters, one either drugged out of his mind, or bound in gear from my bedroom. On second thought, maybe both. Don’t worry, Dick. You won’t remember most of what we do. At first.”

“You can have anything—” Bruce said. 

“Why don’t I trust you, Mr. Wayne? I believe we’ll administer a little something to keep you honest before we start our… interrogation. And I think we’ll do a triple dose. Just for Mr. Bruce Wayne.” He plunged his needle in Bruce’s arm.

At the other end of the building, behind Dick, he heard Di Medici’s footsteps fade, heard the door close behind Jones. 

Dick sprang from the wheelchair and grabbed a bedpan off the shelf to his right.

The movement made Bernard turn to look. Dick enjoyed—more than he’d probably ever admit to anybody—the shock on the guy’s face just before he got conked in the coconut with one of his own hospital’s bedpans.

It was almost as satisfying as the sound it made on impact. The doctor went down like a building being demo-ed—crumpling in on himself, landing at both Dick and Bruce’s feet.

The syringe dangled from Bruce’s shoulder. Now empty. Dick tossed it to the floor.

Bruce smiled a dopey, half-drunk smile at him. His mouth worked, slow and disconcerting, trying to form a word. He finally did, but it was just “Dick.”

“Yeah, Bruce.” Dick grinned back, squeezing him right where his neck and shoulder met—gentle, because of his leg. “Let’s get you out of here.” He slid open the top desk drawer. “Where’s the key?”

“Dick,” Bruce said again, his right eye drooping shut.

“The key, Bruce. Where’s the key?” Dick shoved at the clothes on the desk, listening for the scrape of metal. No dice. “Do you know?”

“Don’t—” Bruce tried to pull at his bonds. “Maybe…” His chains rattled, and he winced when he shifted his weight.

“Be still, Bruce. I’ll find it.”

But it wasn’t there—or at least Dick couldn’t put his hands on the thing. He searched the doctor’s pockets, went through the drawers again, then jumped up on the desk to look at the manacles around Bruce’s wrists. Spring assisted double locks. A wire would take too long. If he had some—were there tools in the truck? It’d still be a slow go but…

Then he remembered.

“Back in a flash, Bruce!”

And he was, this time with Dr. Bernard’s rifle, that he had retrieved from the ambulance. He cocked it, then sidled up, his own arm kind of under Bruce’s left arm, pulling close. “Keep your weight on your good leg, okay?”

“No guns—”

“Shh, Bruce. Just a tool. Not going to shoot anybody.”

“Dick,” Bruce whispered. “Achilles.”

“Your tendon? We’ll fix it! We’re going to get you all fixed up, Bruce.”

“No.” Bruce pressed his cheek to Dick’s. “You.” 

Despite everything else, Dick felt pleasure bloom in his chest. He smiled, not ready for the glow he felt, despite everything else. Bruce thought he was Achilles, the bravest young man in Rome.

“Bruce, you’re out of it.” He shifted on his toes, trying to find the best stance. “Brace yourself on me.” Dick snaked his left arm up around Bruce’s right, trying to support both him and the rifle barrel. Squinting, he aimed for a link in the chain close to the pipe Bruce was dangling from. Then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as his right index finger squeezed the trigger.

The shot was incredibly loud, even over the sound of the rain outside, and the shot echoed through the storage shed. Could probably be heard up at the hospital. Dick yanked at the chain. It didn’t work. He must have missed. But his next two shots—it took two to do the job—didn’t. The chain broke, clattering to the floor.

Bruce fell against him with a groan, his face buried in Dick’s neck, and Dick staggered under the sudden weight. Bruce had over a hundred pounds on him, last he checked. But even if it was a little like dancing with a big drunk gorilla, he managed to twirl them both, maneuvering Bruce into the wheelchair and dropping him there.

The phone on the desk rang, a button lighting, blinking red on the little row under the dial. Then another lit up. Then another.

Dick swept Bruce’s clothes into the open doctor’s bag, then lobbed it toward Bruce.

Bruce caught it, even as he fought whatever the drug was doing to his system. “You are the bravest,” he said, his words slurring, “the most resourceful warrior—” 

An alarm shrieked out, too loud for Dick to hear the rest. Even so, Bruce’s lips were still moving.

“Shh. It’s okay.” Dick grabbed the handles on the wheelchair. Hunkering down like a runner at the sprint line, he went for the pun, even though he was terrified and didn’t even know if Bruce could hear him anymore.

“You ready to roll, B?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may very well be the one I'm proudest of, and if I don't get comments on this chapter, I think I may cry! Do think about leaving me a comment? I post in order to interact, and it gives me enormous pleasure. We are almost done with this story! Let me know what you think! What you like, what you don't like, etc! (Although I'm going to assume that if you're with me this far, you do like this story!) Let me knooooow? It would make me as happy as Dick, rescuing Bruce. (although they are most certainly not out of danger yet! I wonder what will happen next?!)


	22. Grand Prix d' Endurance

Outside, the rain had turned into a storm. Up the hill at the hospital, doors slammed and dogs barked. Through sheeting rain, Dick saw the glare of flashlights—and the beams of an approaching car.

Luckily, the ambulance was right there.

He didn’t have much time. Men and dogs were both out now. Through the rain, he could see them—dark shapes in the distance. Hear their shouts and rabid barking.

Dick ran for it, pushing the wheelchair, a young man in a tuxedo pushing a barely-dressed mostly unconscious man in a wheelchair, wheels bumping across mud and grass. The ambulance’s front seat was like a vinyl-covered bench, and the driver’s side door was closest, so he shoved Bruce in from the driver’s side, pushing him over to the passenger side. Bruce wasn’t easy to manhandle up and in, and it didn’t help that the guy was in boxers and an undershirt—nothing to grab onto and yank—but Dick did it, finally, with the clock ticking.

Ahead, men and dogs. Behind him, the approaching car. It was fifty yards away and closing fast.

Dick jumped into the driver’s seat just before the first bullet hit, zinging right into his still-open door.

He snatched the door’s handle and slammed it shut. Turned the key—still in the ignition—and revved the engine, roaring the ambulance into gear.

He peeled out and the ambulance lurched forward—and Bruce with it. Dick’s arm shot out just in time to keep Bruce from nose-diving into the suicide dash.

A car was coming straight at them, head-on. A bronze Citroen.

Steering with only one hand now, his other hand on Bruce, Dick played chicken as long as he could fake it out, then swerved at the last possible moment, surging past.

Up ahead loomed the asylum’s guardhouse and a gate, its arm down. Blocking the road. And standing in front of the gate, silhouetted against the downpour, was a man with a shotgun.

Behind them, the Citroen squealed to a stop and u-turned to chase. Now they had two cars on the move behind them.

Dick punched the gas. Beside him, Bruce stirred, trying to sit up.

“Down, Bruce. Get down!”

Bruce didn’t get down, though. He mumbled something that didn’t make sense and didn’t move.

Dick grabbed him, cramming him toward the window, and Bruce slumped down with a groan. More bullets sounded, pinging against the metal of the car.

Ducking down as far as he could, Dick kept only his eyes above the level of the dash.

The cars on his tail loomed closer. Ahead, Dick could see the guard, in silhouette, pumping his shotgun. Yelling for them to halt, immediately. Getting ready to fire.

Dick flicked on the siren. A warning. He was busting through that gate, buddy.

The guard crouched into shooting stance, which was good. It’d keep him in one place. 

Dick aimed for his target, the gate’s arm, close to the guard—had to be, if he was going to make it through the gate—but didn’t aim the car at the guy, obviously. Just right next to the shadowy figure. He floored the ambulance. Impact in three, two…

And then the guard fired. The bullet crashed through the windshield, crazing the glass like ice crystals, shattered shards splintering, spilling through the chassis—landing on Dick’s face and hands, on Bruce—seconds before Dick smashed through the arm of the gate, wood cracking as it gave way and split it in half.

The ambulance surged though the gate, and in his rearview mirror, Dick watched the guard drop to his knees. Not because Dick hit him, but a chain reaction from the bowing and breaking of the gate itself.

Hitting the gate had slowed Dick down for a minute, but only a minute, and now on the open road, siren wailing, rain pouring in through what was left of the broken windshield, Dick blinked the water from his eyes. And gunned the engine harder.

The Citroen was still on their heels, getting closer. Behind it, the other car. A shot rang out. Then another. The third one took out the back windshield. Way too close.

Bruce tried to sit up. Dick elbowed him down again.

He swung down an unmarked road. The cars behind him did the same, still firing. Dick killed his lights and siren and took another cutoff. He took the first road to the left, then the right. Then the right again, just guessing and hoping that his instinct wouldn’t lead him wrong. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he had to get the heck out of here.

Blacktop changed to gravel, which was good. It made for a less accurate shot. Up ahead the road split in two. Dick went right. So did the Citroen, its shots pinging off the ambulance, one of them cracking his side-view mirror. Behind the Citroen, was… nothing. Had they lost the other car? Dick hoped so, then focused back on his driving. It wasn’t easy, going as fast as he was, hurling the car forward over gravel.

He came to another fork and went right again, following the road as best he could by the moonlight. Then left at the next turnoff. The ambulance fishtailed, then picked up speed as Dick found his footing again. Dick couldn’t see the Citroen. Had he lost his tail? The roads were getting iffier now, and he risked turning on his headlights, keeping them on dim, just to keep the ambulance from running straight into a ditch or slamming into a tree. He sped on, only seeing a few feet in front of the car, randomly taking turnoffs and side roads that back home he’d call farm roads. The sixth? Eighth? Tenth? He didn’t know anymore, and darn it, he should have kept count!—but the road changed from gravel to dirt. Dirt that was now mud.

Dick couldn’t stop looking back over his shoulder. The ambulance sloshing through mud and brackish water, splashing through puddles and thumping over mud and rocks and when they hit a particularly deep rut Bruce moaned in his stupor.

One hand still on the wheel, Dick reached for him, grabbing Bruce by the armhole of his undershirt, hauling him over to slump halfway across his lap, where he could keep at least a slightly better hold on him, try to buffet the jolts of the road. Still, Bruce lurched forward, like he might crumple to Dick’s feet, and it was only Dick’s firm hand on Bruce’s shoulder that kept the man in place, pinned where Dick needed him to stay, for his own good. Bruce protested, but only a little, offering a little bit of a struggle and a few garbled noises before giving up and sagging against him, his breath warm and somehow comforting on Dick's tuxedo clad pants-leg. The rain lessened, but still pattered down on the two of them. It was dark, and treacherous out here, with trees leaping up and ditches looming, obstacles he only saw seconds before almost plowing into them. Dick decided to risk turning on his headlights right before he hit whatever it was that took out his front tire.

He got out and eyeballed the flat, and while he was at it, tried to figure the time and how long until dawn.

The ambulance didn’t have a spare tire, so he got back in the car and drove, slower now, on the rim, hoping against hope that they’d find some sign of civilization before the tire’s battered rim forced him to a point where he couldn’t drive at all. They crossed a small creek and passed fields of crops, dark clumps on either side of the ambulance. The ride—slow now—got jerkier and more jarring—and Bruce got noisier with his grunts and groans—as the tire’s rim deteriorated. They couldn’t drive on it more than another few minutes. The thing was only barely holding on. Dick’s heart raced and he tried not to panic. They could get out of this, they could! Although if he had to thumb a ride… who was he kidding, he was in the middle of nowhere. What were they going to do if the ambulance couldn’t… ambulate? He scoured the horizon for any sign of people, of help, of phones. And breathed a sigh of relief, squeezing Bruce’s shoulder when he saw a barn up ahead. Crippled, the car barely obeyed his commands.

Nevertheless, he aimed the ambulance toward the barn. And breathed the biggest sigh of release he’s ever breathed, probably! Because just past the barn was a cottage, a small white shape in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm strongly considering writing an extra chapter to this story. If so, the next installment will be delayed a few days while I write it. Keep your fingers crossed for me. 
> 
> Also! I miscounted my chapters. There are 25, not 24. Oops. Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy! Feedback will make me as breathless as Dick, fleeing through the Parisian countryside in his tuxedo, cradling a vulnerable, half-naked Bruce, who's shoved safely into his lap.


	23. A Cottage in the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, real life got the better of me for a bit, there.

The house—just a cottage, really—was dark. As he got closer, the ambulance limping along, jolting them both, he saw that the place was shuttered and the yard unkempt. But maybe there’d be a phone. 

As gently as he could, he pushed Bruce off his lap. Bruce didn’t respond, even when Dick patted his face. “Going to scout the house, Bruce,” he said anyway.

He banged on the door, but it didn’t do any good. The back door was easy to break into and his fingers scrabbled along the wall for a light switch, but he couldn’t find it. He did find a window and he pulled back the curtains, letting the dimmest of light in the room. He was standing in a kitchen. And there, on the counter, was a hurricane lamp, half-filled with oil. 

No matches, but luckily, Dick still had a souvenir pack in his pocket—some kind of goofy good luck charm, a reminder of this trip, shoved in his pocket when he’d changed into his tux and tried to figure out what to take with him to the DuMarier’s. A long, long time ago.

Dick’s jacket was wet, but Bruce’s body against him had shielded the contents of his pocket from most of the rain. He dug out the matches, then peeled away Dave’s fake mustache which had kind of balled up and stuck to them. 

He struck a Hotel Ritz match and lit the lamp.

The kitchen was dusty and a little spider-webby. There weren’t any light switches because there weren’t any lights. The place wasn’t wired for electricity. Or a phone. 

Outside, he heard the rain start up again. 

He went through the house, through a musty living area, to the front door. That’d be the way to bring Bruce in. Dick took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

Bruce roused a little bit, but not enough to do more than blink and then close his eyes again. Dick hauled him out of the car and it was like trying to cart around a huge, doped-up chimpanzee. Who was kind of trying to fight him from lala-land.

The big guy just wasn’t getting any easier to lug around, and the chair was a pain in an overgrown yard and up the three stairs to the house, but he did it. To his right was a bedroom—and a bathroom, so hopefully the place had running water—and he dragged a mostly unconscious Bruce in there and dumped him on the bed, hoping against hope that he hadn’t worsened Bruce’s leg, given him a compound fracture.

Peering closer with the lamp, he was able to see he hadn’t, but Bruce was thrashing around a little, and that break needed to be stabilized. So Dick smashed a kitchen chair for a splinting brace and then tried to find something to tie it on with. 

Searching the house didn’t yield anything but a small coil of 8-ply by the back door. Not enough to do the job and Dick really wanted something a little more forgiving for a leg splint. Still, he was almost going to just make do when he remembered. He was really, really getting tired, but he remembered: the doctor’s black bag. A quick run to the car and he’d dumped the bag’s contents on the bedroom floor. Underneath plenty of syringes and Bruce’s evening clothes, there were three rolls of bandages.

Dick wound out lengths of the white cotton cloth and used it to attach the chair slats to Bruce’s lower leg. It wasn’t easy, because Bruce must have been dreaming or something. And fighting in his dream. Trying to kick and punch and he wouldn’t be still for more than a few minutes at a time. In desperation, Dick grabbed Bruce’s good leg—his right one—and tied it to the iron bedframe with the 8-ply. That helped some, and there was even less thrashing when he was able to snag Bruce’s left arm and tie that wrist to the headboard. Out of rope, he rolled out bandage material for that, winding multiple times. He followed suit with Bruce’s other hand, and finally had a moderately stabilized—talking up a storm about things that Dick either couldn’t quite make out or didn’t want to understand—Bruce. With a pretty decent splint on. 

Dick congratulated himself, pushing the extra slats off the bed and collapsing. It’s not like he could sleep. The ambulance out there was too risky, too obvious. It needed to be hidden. He leaned back next to Bruce, trying to think.

When Dick awoke, a warm weight was on his stomach. Snoring. Bruce was snoring. He’d managed, in his sleep, to free his hands and curve himself over, onto Dick’s stomach. Where he was currently snoring. And drooling a little. 

“Bruce,” Dick said, pushing him off. But Bruce didn’t wake. He swiped off the spit with his hand. "Ugh, Bruce."

It looked like there might be a sliver of gray light coming from around the shutters that blocked the window. Jeez. He’d fallen asleep. 

Outside, it was early morning. Dick started up the ambulance and pointed it toward the barn. The barn was locked, but it didn’t take more than fifteen minutes to turn the tumblers and then he was in. The ambulance mired in the heavy grass and had to be pushed the last few yards. He leaned against it, breathing heavy. 

The early dawn sun was lighting up the barn, too. Pouring through a hole in the barn roof like the finger of God, a single beam lit something that made Dick smile for the first time in what seemed like forever. A 1951 Chevy. Paint-chipped, rusty, beat-up, but maybe—yes! The keys were in the ignition and the darn clunker fired right up. 

They didn’t have the necklace—the whole reason they were even here, instead of home. Gotham would be embarassed and the honor of the city would be—well, it'd be bad. And it'd happen in…Dick squinted at the sun—just a few hours. But he’d gotten Bruce away from the bad guys and maybe they even had a way out of here. Things were going to be okay. 

Bruce was still out when he got back. Snoring though, so that had to mean the drugs were wearing off. Did Bruce usually snore or was it a hangover from the drug? He had to be a light sleeper, because he could be up and at ‘em at the drop of a hat. Or beam of the signal. 

Dick perched beside him and shook his shoulder. Bruce made a noise that was unintelligible and didn’t open his eyes. Dick let himself close his, just for a moment.

“Dick?”

It was Bruce’s voice. “Dick?” he said again.

“Bruce!” Dick opened his eyes to see Bruce staring at him, the oddest, most confused quirk to his lip that Dick had ever seen. Bruce looked like hell, all beat up and needing a shave—really bad, but he’d never looked better, not ever, to Dick.

“Could you tell me, Dick, why I’m tied to a strange bed in my underwear?”


	24. Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've put off posting this so long because I'm worried people will not like it. I've strongly considered writing an alternate ending, and I may well do it. Stay tuned, and thanks for reading.

Exhausted but jazzed on… well, relief, Dick rooted through the kitchen. Who knew how long since Bruce had eaten, and his stomach was growling like crazy. 

There were some canned goods, but they either bulged at the seams or were for something really gross, like tongue. He found a tin of stale crackers though, and put them on a plate. He even found some tea, and managed to heat some water enough to make a weak couple of cups.

They caught up on things—well, a lot of what had happened; Dick did leave out some parts—over the worst breakfast ever. Dick pulled up a chair and Bruce propped himself on some pillows and listened, mostly.

“So you rescued me.”

“Anytime, Bruce.” Dick grinned.

“I must have been very…” Bruce waved a hand at the torn fastenings hanging from the bed frame. “Disoriented last night.”

“Well… yeah.” Dick couldn’t quite look at him.

Bruce waited, eyes narrowing. “What is it?”

“Well, it’s… it’s nothing.” 

“Nothing?”

Dick sighed. “Some of the things you were saying last night made me—”

“I was compromised by barbiturates last night, Dick. Not in my right mind. I hope I didn’t—”

“No. But the thing is,” Dick took a breath, tried to spit it out. He didn’t want to talk about this. He didn’t have to talk about this. They could go on, go back home, and forget about everything that had happened before. They could even forget about the last time he’d found Bruce tied up, the last time he’d tried—no matter how off base he’d been—to rescue Bruce. 

Dick swallowed. “It’s just that between that and… um—some of the stuff that’s happened?”

“To what are you referring exactly?”

Dick forced himself to meet Bruce’s gaze. 

No one else could have seen it, but Dick did. Bruce cringed, and it made Dick cringe inside, too.

“I shouldn’t have—” The bed’s thin mattress depressed as Bruce shifted. “Even though I was needed here, I shouldn’t have left so abruptly. We should have… talked.”

“We don’t have to talk about it. I don’t even—I don’t even want to, Bruce. I just want…” Dick shrugged. “I want—when we go back—for things to be the way they used to be.”

“Ah.”

“And I don’t mind if you keep seeing her.”

Bruce’s eyes widened, the faintest color rising in his face. And then he studied something far off in the distance. “I don’t require your permission, Dick—”

“It’s just that—that night.”

Bruce crossed his arms. “Yes,” he said softly, still focused on the corner of the room.

“I didn’t think…” Dick stopped, tried again. “I didn’t think you’d…”

Bruce took a deep breath. Met his eyes.

“I didn’t think you’d want—”

“I see.”

“It—it surprised me, is all”

“Dick, I never wanted you to—” Bruce stopped, looked away again. “Adults occasionally indulge in some activities that are…” He splayed his fingers, then cracked a knuckle. “That are inappropriate for further discussion.”

“I know what adults do, Bruce.”

“Hmm.”

“I even…” He couldn’t quite say what he’d seen in the doctor’s bedroom. The chest of… really specialized gadgets and… and where he’d seen some of them last. “I just wasn’t—didn’t think—” Dick downed the end of his bitter, now cold tea. “I thought you were in trouble.”

“And I thought you were at your school function—”

“We finished early.”

“We need to have clearer signals—”

“I triangulated your signal.”

“I turned it off for a reason.”

“I didn’t know that. You didn’t even tell me you were seeing her again—”

“My private life—”

“Let me finish, Bruce.”

“You broke in.”

“We break into warehouses all the time. I thought you were in trouble…”

Bruce’s voice was barely audible. “I know.” 

“Just for a minute, when I first—I thought you needed help. You were all… and then she came in and…” Dick swallowed again, hard. “It was just a big surprise, you know?”

Bruce’s mouth tightened into a thin line.

“But it’s fine, B.”

Bruce sighed. Swiped a hand through his messy hair. “Is it?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking.”

“Have you?” Bruce stared at his tea. Put down the cup.

“About people.”

“A good detective does.”

“And how they are with certain… things.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah. So what if sometimes you… So what? You’re not hurting anybody.” Dick picked up a cracker, turned it in his hand. “I mean, that doesn’t really, really hurt, right?”

Bruce closed his eyes for a split second. Tucked his upper lip between his teeth. Let it go again. “Not in the… traditional sense.”

“Okay. So you’re not hurting each other. Not like Bernard might… take advantage of somebody.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “He didn’t do anything… improper, did he Dick?”

“No, no. Not with me. Alessandro, though.”

“Ah. I had suspected…”

“Maybe Lorena too.” 

“We’re about to stop him.”

“I know. But what I mean is—” Dick looked at the ceiling, tried to pick his words very carefully. “What I mean is that—I don’t care.”

“About what, Dick?”

“About your private stuff.”

“I see.”

“As long as you’re okay with it. It’s just your business and it doesn’t have anything to do with who you are, not really. And not—you know—with me.”

Bruce reached for his tea. Blinked. Took a sip.

“And I think you got the wrong idea about something else.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah.” It was Dick’s turn to avoid eye contact. “Superman.”

The cracker in Bruce’s hand snapped in half. “Superman?” 

“Yeah, um…”

“Um?”

“Yeah, well,” Dick cleared his throat. “I think you thought something...”

“And what would be the right idea, Dick?”

“He wasn’t… he wasn’t—it was Red K.”

“Mm hmm.”

“That hit me. That hit us.”

“Continue, please.”

“And Supes—Superman, did get me out of the line of fire.”

Bruce swirled his tea. 

“He was a little too rough.”

Bruce tensed, his fist wrapping tighter around his mug. 

“And maybe just a little too… um—and don’t take this the wrong way, okay, Bruce?”

Bruce stared at him, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. It looked like he was grinding his teeth.

“He got a little too, um…” Dick fidgeted, looked at the ceiling again. “Well I think he just forgot who I was for a minute.”

The vein in Bruce’s jaw throbbed with his pulse.

“Who, pray tell, did he think you were, Dick?”

“I—I just think he forgot his own strength for a minute. He was really glad I was okay and he was—I don’t know, hugging me really hard.” At the look on Bruce’s face, Dick quickly added, stuttering a little, “But just for a minute! He grabbed me really hard and all, and—” he took a deep breath. “It’s okay, though. I calmed him down.”

Bruce’s voice was Batman deadly. “Did you.” It wasn’t a question. 

Dick nodded. “I pulled out the Green K.”

“Did you?” 

“I did.”

“I see.” Bruce’s eyes widened and his eyebrows rose up. Pretty high. “And did that… subdue Clark?”

“Yeah. I just… I didn’t say anything because gosh, Bruce. I don’t think he even remembers.”

“Sometimes he doesn’t.”

“And nobody got hurt, and it only lasted for a second, and I didn’t want to embarrass him.”

“You think very highly of Clark.”

“Yeah, Bruce. I really do.”

“And you withheld this information from me because?”

“Well, I guess because everything worked out okay and all. I mean, he’s the second-best guy in the world. He wouldn’t act like that with me if he wasn’t—you know, like you said earlier—compromised. And so okay, he tried to kiss me, but—”

If Bruce had heat vision, the room would now be in flames. 

“But he was really out of it and—”

“No one should take advantage of you, Dick.”

“And he’s your best friend,”

“No one, Dick. I’m going to have a talk with him.”

“But he wasn’t—there’s nobody I think of better than him. You know, except for you.”

Bruce sighed. “No one should take advantage of you, Dick. It’s unacceptable.”

“But he didn’t Bruce. It’s kind of just like… when you were out of your mind last night.”

Bruce’s mouth opened, then closed again. He didn’t say anything.

“I just mean that—it was like maybe you thought you were talking to… you know—her. It’s like Supes being weird for one whole minute, or—” Dick ducked his head, then spit it out one last time. “Or you and Miss Kyle. None of that’s like Dr. Bernard and what’s he’s doing to Alessandro.”

Bruce rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re going to help Alessandro.”

“I know.” Dick smiled. “It’s what we do.”

“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” Bruce said, still rubbing his neck.

“Those chains must have really pulled on your trapezoid, huh?”

“What?” Bruce finally stopped doing it. “Bernard will be arrested shortly.”

Dick was very glad to change the subject. “How?”

“During my investigations at the hospital—before the guards and dogs caught up with me, I uncovered evidence that will put both Baron Di Medici and Bernard—Herman Gutrig, actually, as we suspected—behind bars for a very long time.”

“Old stuff or new stuff?”

“Both. Current… improprieties evident in the hospital records. And incontrovertible proof of Nazi war crimes.”

“Oh! Are you going to contact Mosaad?” 

Bruce nodded “There is still the matter of how we are going to get to a phone, however.”

“I found a truck in the barn, B. A clunker, but it’s got a half tank of gas and it runs.”

Bruce grinned, making his blackened eye crinkle oddly. “Good work, Dick. I knew I could count on you.”

Dick felt his face flush a little. “Too bad about—” 

“The necklace?”

“Dr. Vardian will be making his announcement soon.” 

“Don’t sound so disappointed, Dick. We’re putting an evil man in the hands of the authorities.” Bruce dusted cracker crumbs from his hands. “And thanks to you, I’m in one piece. Think we should get out of here?”

Dick nodded, grinning.

“See if you can find any clues to the address of this home. We ought to reimburse the owner for breaking in and the use of their truck. And perhaps get rid of these.” He waved a hand at the fastenings that Dick had used to bind him to the bed: the rope and the bandages. 

“Don’t want them to think they had a visit from the mummy.”

“Exactly.”

“Or a mad scientist.” Dick stepped over the pile of syringes and other equipment he’d dumped from the doctor’s bag in a mad rush to find supplies and opened the top drawer of a writing desk near the window. “Maybe there’s some mail or something.”

Bruce unwound the bandages from the bed’s headboard. “Toss me that bag please, Dick. I’ll stow these in there.”

Dick lobbed it toward him. And the empty doctor’s bag… rattled. Dick frowned.

So did Bruce, peering inside. He turned it upside down, but nothing fell out. “Are there any scissors in that desk, Dick?”

Dick handed them over.

Opening the scissors to form one sharp point, Bruce dug the blade into the bag’s lining. “Aha!”

Dick grinned. “Alessandro did say she’d hid it where customs wouldn’t find it.”

“And what better hiding place than in plain view, as it were.”

“Maybe Lorena’s a fan of “The Purloined Letter”, huh Bruce?”

Bruce smiled, pouring the necklace—the real Maiden’s Sacrifice—out onto the bed sheet. The huge, oblong emeralds set in gold gleamed, luminous even in the dim light of the bedroom. 

“One stone seems to be missing, however.” Bruce tapped a spot that should have held an emerald, but instead was an empty setting. “Ah, well.” He winked at Dick. 

“How fast can you get us to Paris, then?”

Dick couldn’t stop smiling. “I’ll make that Chevy wail, B.”

Bruce reached out and touched Dick’s jaw. “And could you scare up a razor? You certainly look like you could use a shave, and I imagine I could, too.”


	25. Au Revoir, Dick Grayson!

At first it was hit or miss, but between the two of them, Bruce and Dick quickly got their bearings and made good time. At one point they stopped and made a phone call, but other than that, it was straight on to the city.

The ’51 Chevy, red where the paint hadn’t rusted off, wheezed and groaned as Dick pulled to a stop a block from the DuMarier estate. Yvette—leaning on Philippe’s taxi, squealed and waved when she saw who it was. She threw her arms around him—all warm, soft skin and crisp, starched uniform—when he stepped out of the truck to let her take a seat.

“Oh, Dick!” 

“Yeah.” He still couldn’t stop grinning. “We made it.”

“And Mr. Wayne!” She hugged Bruce, too. “I am so glad to see you both again. I was so worried—”

“Thank you, Yvette. Dick told me what you’ve done for us. Did you call Gotham?”

“I did! Commissioner Gordon.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I used the code.”

“Ready?” Dick held the door open for her with a flourish.

“Mais oui!” Yvette climbed into the truck and sat in the middle. “This came for you.” She held up a small package—not any bigger than the one that Bruce’s cufflink had come in. It too, was marked with the same words: Suite 512.

“When?”

“Sometime last night, I think. After you left, Dick. But I didn’t know until this morning, when I saw it behind the desk. The clerk wouldn’t give it to me, but Nick distracted him and I stole it for you.”

Bruce opened the box. It was the missing emerald. And a note, written in girlish, looping cursive from Lorena, explaining that the stone was a sample of what she had to sell to Bruce Wayne.

Dick started the truck and drove them up, engine coughing, to the front entrance of the manor. The Chevy idled—blowing smoke—behind an Aston Martin DB5 until a valet, wrinkling his nose, opened the passenger side door.

“Just a minute.” Dick opened his own and let Yvette slip out. 

After she and Bruce had exited, along with the wheelchair that Bruce got into, Dick drove back out the circular drive, then steered the heap around the corner, taking the gravel road that ran behind the estate. He parked the truck in front of Dr. Bernard’s little office, next to the single remaining L’hôpital Saint Adelaide ambulance. 

At the broken window, Dick stepped over shattered glass to retrieve the suitcase he’d used to break in. Inside it, along with Denise’s dress and accessories, was the appliance adhesive. He dug the mustache out of his pocket, straightened it out and put it on, using the mirror over the doctor’s washstand.

Moments later he was at the back door to the DuMarier estate, and then inside, surrounded by the clatter of dishes and pots and pans. It was easy to grab a waiter’s jacket and dome-lidded silver food platter. Crossing the chaotic, loud kitchen, he pushed through the swinging door and into the dining room. 

The room was packed with tables of people and a dozen reporters. Ahead of Dick was a raised platform, and on it, the head table, where the guest of honor and exhibit dignitaries were seated. Dr. Bernard looked terrible. What Bruce would call, ‘decidedly worse for wear’. One entire side of his face was purple. Swollen. Dick wondered what excuse the guy’d given. Car accident? Walked into a door? Dick was a pro at making up stories to cover bruises and rope burns, and his mustache tickled when smiled to himself because whatever story Bernard had used? Sure wouldn’t have included getting whalloped in the kisser with a bedpan. 

Next to Bernard, looking quite grim, sat Dr. Vardian. He shuffled index cards full of notes, then rose from his chair and moved to the podium in the center of the dais, tapping the microphone. “Mesdames et messieurs, I come to you with some…” he sighed. “Some very sad news. It seems that the necklace you’ve seen displayed here is not the same necklace that I last inspected in Gotham.”

A buzz started up, whispers traveling through the assembly. Reporters crowded closer.

“It seems that the necklace on display in Paris is worthless. Paste.”

The crowd’s noise got louder.

“It is highly likely that the theft occurred in Gotham. A jewel thief, perhaps the one known as Catwoman…” 

Dick stepped to the edge of the platform. In the sea of people he spotted Bruce, being wheeled into the room by Yvette; the table where Alessandro was seated with Lorena and Baron Di Medici; and the gendarmes, summoned by Commissioner Gordon, who were slowly filing in from the front and back entrances. Jones, the bodyguard, was arguing with two of them at the door. 

So far nobody had noticed Dick, but the doctor seemed to notice the cops. And the moderately beat-up man in a wheelchair and rumpled evening clothes Yvette wheeled into the room. The doctor signaled to the Baron, who shot from his seat toward Bruce.

Vardian was still talking, apologizing for Gotham, and Dick closed the steps between the two of them, climbing up the stairs to the dias—even though he wished he could backflip his way there—while the crowd watched, mumbling confusion. With a perfection that would make Alfred proud, he proffered his covered tray to the scientist. 

Dr. Vardian’s eyes widened. A hush fell over the room, and it made even Di Medici stop and turn.

Looking out on the crowd, its periphery filling with cops and some men in dark glasses who Dick knew had to be Mosaad agents, Dick watched Yvette and Bruce move closer for a better look. 

Dr. Vardian stood frozen, staring at Dick and the domed tray in his hand. 

Bernard stood. “Guards,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Remove this waiter.”

“Some of Gotham’s finer things, Dr. Vardian.” Dick whisked off the lid to reveal the doctor’s bag, its clasp engraved with Bernard’s initials. 

Vardian just frowned, so Dick handed the tray and lid to a put-upon dignitary next to him and opened the bag’s clasp.

Bernard make a strangled little choking noise. “What are you doing? That’s mine!” He lunged toward the bag, grabbing it. 

Dick’s fist lashed toward him and the guy went flying, tumbling off the dais. The bag’s contents spilled across the floor of the dining room, emeralds clattering on the marble floor. Dick did a backflip and landed next to the necklace.

And that’s when the flashbulbs started going off. 

Baron Di Medici ran for the door, but Bruce’s good leg shot out, and Dominic tripped, falling hard. 

Reporters surged forward, snapping the necklace, the doctor--sprawled still clutching his bag and Di Medici, getting cuffed.

Dick slipped past the crowd—Dave Matthews might be in Le Monde tomorrow, but he sure wasn’t giving an interview—and made his way out the door. 

Grinning, he stepped out of the DuMarier mansion into sunshine, to join Bruce on the front steps of the estate. 

“Good work, Dick!” Bruce was smiling as honest and happy a smile as Dick had seen on him in ages.

Outside, the rolling green lawn stretched in front of them, opening to the city beyond. Yvette waved from the street, where she was hailing Philippe to come and pick them up.

“So B? What’s next? Get you to a hospital for a cast?”

“I’m thinking, Dick, that perhaps,” Bruce’s eyes sparkled at him. “Perhaps it’s time to go home.”

“Dick!” a voice hissed, and Alessandro’s head poked out from around the corner of the mansion. 

“Alessandro?” Bruce said. 

“Mr. Wayne.” Alessandro nodded. “I must…” he snatched Dick’s hand. Smiling at Bruce, he dragged Dick around the corner. 

Still holding his hand, he squeezed it. “Thank you, Dick,” he said, looking up at him in that out-from-under-his-lashes way. “Thank you!”

“Aw, it was nothing, Alessandro.” 

“Oh, but it was, Dick! It was. It was everything!” Alessandro leaned close and Dick knew he was about to kiss him. Their lips almost touching, Dick could feel Alessandro’s breath against his face as he whispered. “You are a hero, Dick.”

Alessandro’s mouth brushed his, warm and soft and before he could pull away, Lorena was there, too. Running out the side door. “Alessandro! Mama wants to talk to you. She is divorcing Bernard!”

“Huh?” Alessandro said, hand on the small of Dick’s back, his dark almond eyes glazed over and bright at the same time. 

“Thank you, Dick.” Lorena stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “We have to go in now.” She grabbed her brother, pulling him toward an open set of French doors that led to the dining room. 

“I will write you, Dick!” Alessandro called as Lorena dragged him away. He turned to wave goodbye at the threshold. “I will come visit you in Gotham, okay?” 

“Um, okay, Alessandro!” Dick said, because what was he going to say right now anyway? “Au revoir!”

“Au revoir!” Lorena and Alessandro both called. “Au revoir!”

Dick tried to will away the heat rushing to his cheeks and slowly turned to see… a completely poker-faced Bruce. Poker-faced, that is, too anybody but Robin. 

“Hmm,” he said, trying not to smile with his mouth, although it was definitely there in his slightly too-wide eyes. “Your mustache, Dick. It seems to be crooked.”

Dick yanked it off. “Ow!” He rubbed the sting, then took the handles of Bruce’s chair and began to push them both toward the mansion’s gates and the Paris street beyond.

Neither one of them said anything for a few yards, but then Dick finally spoke. 

“Guess Batman will be out of commission for a while, huh?” He squeezed Bruce’s shoulder and for just a moment Bruce rested his own hand over his and squeezed back. 

“I heal quickly.”

“Do you think we should see if Superman can help out for a wh—”

Dick could hear the smile again, in Bruce’s voice. “That won’t be necessary, Dick. I’ll be perfectly able to handle operations from base. And I’m wondering if perhaps it’s time for you to experiment with a new team-up.”

“Who, B?”

“I was thinking, perhaps… Batgirl.”

“Really, Bruce?” Dick’s voice cracked, just a little. 

And then Yvette was hugging him, throwing her arms around him when they reached the taxi. 

“Yes,” Bruce said, clearing his throat as Yvette finally let go.

“I’m sure you’re up to the challenge, Dick. You’ve certainly conquered Paris.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this story and taking this journey with me! Drop me a line and let me hear from you! :)


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